arctic-wolf hybrid!zayne and stray-cat hybrid!reader
fucking, zayne thinks, is an extremely juvenile and vulgar way to put it. he prefers the term love-making, over all else.
second only to breeding...
mdni 18+
basically my rendition of how he'd have sex with you 𖹭
｡𖦹°‧⭑.ᐟ fingering, piv sex, dacryphilia, creampie yay
the first time, the very first time he does this, makes sense in a way that doesn't really. it's too agonizingly slow, the scorching trickle of molten-hot tension like drool down his spine. but then it's whiplash, interwoven, a sniffle and a plea and a hiccup blistering into white-blinding hunger, all at once.
hubris.
a fever dream, he calls it — gives it a name — can't really put it any other way because that would essentially negate it.
the slow drag of your slick-sticky panties down your thighs, knees an almost-bruised pink from how they're digging into the bedsheets, a blotchy-wet heat. you shift in little kicks as he lifts an ankle to get the cotton off of you, a syrupy-hot, glistening line along your calf where your arousal has managed to smother onto from the panties.
tail out of the way, please.
the first tap, calloused index and middle fingertips surgery-precise and need-heavy, to your clit sends a static-y jolt through you. then you're whining and gasping with every breath you take as he rubs, in circles, the little nub until you're coming apart, coming undone, unravelling right in his hands, all his doing. a rush of slick and a hiccup and a thrashing tail in the air.
the first slide — it's indulgence, a sweetness that's the rotting kind, cavity-inducing — of his finger over your slit makes him grunt. it slides into your hole easy, wet, with only the tiniest little sniffle of discomfort from your pretty, spit-dewy lips.
he's stroking himself simultaneously, one finger pumping away inside of your needy cunt while the other works along his shaft, a slow tempo, back and forth and squeeze. until, eventually, with enough effort, he has your hips bucking and chasing the second orgasm down as he splatters his own onto the back of your thighs.
your first time, he thinks — has to remind himself — to keep himself sane, to keep himself from trespassing that threshold of feral.
feeding his cock into your sopping little cunt after it's been stretched out enough by his fingers, the shaking little kitty that you are, mewling beneath him with your soft underbelly hot and trembling against the palm of his that it presses against, inch after inch like it's some sort of delicate ritual. slow, so slow, so tender with it despite your gooey walls fighting to push him out. just me, just my cock, shh.
when the head of him, bulbous and throbbing with undeterred need, kisses your cervix, when he hears that little warble, so sweet and soft and aching, he knows that there's nothing he could possibly give to ever go back. to normal. to any semblance of the man he was before he became animal.
he's wild, yes, but he doesn't mean to be.
there's a difference in these things, their execution: rough and brandishing, he could get away with, he knows, if he so pleased. but he doesn't; doesn't rush it, as much as it kills him not to, that tipping point, an almost-there urge, sugar bubbling away hotly into the sweetest of caramel, a syrupy rush that washes over him.
zayne takes it slow, the very first time, all the way in, now. relax for me, hm? deep breaths, come on, i know you can do it.
he knows it's scary, it can be scary, given your circumstances; how you're cowering, quivering, hitches in your breath with every little sob that egresses your pretty little lips. but it's the lesser evil, he thinks, to calm your nerves in this way.
i'm not moving yet, as he lets you feel all of him, his heavy-hot cock in its entirety, still and sure, every ridge and every vein and every throb—
mmf... too b-big.
you're boneless in his hands by the time the whimpers die down. stuffed full of his cock and the almost-forming knot at his base.
good?
y-yeah... good.
zayne tenses, for what feels like too-many seconds too long, before his hands twist in your hair. a gentle tug, not rough, just to turn your sniffly face from where it's tucked into the pillows over to him instead.
when he sees it, it's another throb, hot and rapid, this seizing rush, molten-thick down his spine. tear-clumped lashes and droopy eyes. bottom lip worried red from how hard you've bitten down on it. and he just has to lean in— has to, because he can't stand the sight of it; knows he's tipping into insanity — to press his lips to yours.
it turns into impulse: shaped like a breathless thing, a sickly, rotting sweetness that is you. he's pushing you deeper into the mattress with every slow thrust — almost out, only your folds clinging desperately onto his tip like a plea to never part, and then all the way in, a beat, two, three, four, to let you feel him, memorize him, brand himself into your skin, every little pulsing inch on top of inch, before he repeats the cycle.
he makes sure to kiss you through it, to talk you through it, licking away salt-shiny tears and keeping your legs apart with his tail as his hands work on your bottom, pulling you towards him with every snap of his hips. scratches behind your cat-ears when you're about to come, every single time without fail, to get you that mix of hazy and pliant and gooey, your drool pooling beneath you, staining the pillowcases dark, there goes another one, hm? just like that.
tomorrow, he has work.
because he isn't the animal he is right now (more beast than man, than predator-hybrid); isn't a sex-hungry maniac with an insatiable requisite to mate, to breed, to pump, more than he has already, full of his cum until it can't f-fit anymore...
⋆˚࿔lads men with their sweet little hybrid ՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞ !
XAVIER ᢉ𐭩Ი︵𐑼
Xavier would most likely adore a soft little bunny!hybrid. He would love how cuddly and clingy you are, watching as your little nose twitched and how your little cotton tail would wag underneath your his hoodie. He would love day naps with you, curled up in his king-sized, soft bed with blankets galore. He loved watching you gently chew on your food, always taking small bites at a time and never rushing to finish your food, it made Xavier want to learn how to cook so he could watch your little bunny ears perk up, your eyes lighting up as you happily danced from the delicious food. However, his favorite thing about his precious bunny!hybrid is the way that you so willingly let him dress, groom, and bathe you. He loves seeing you in your cute little frilly outfits that he has the pleasure of picking out for you each day. He takes his time, gently combing through your hair in the mornings, watching videos to learn how to do cute hairstyles that you always ask for after having spent his time bathing you, making sure that you were all clean and fresh, that constant, subtle scent of vanilla always clinging to you. Not that he was complaining anyway. Especially not when you cling to him at night, burying yourself into his warmth and quietly scenting him, making sure that he smelled like you.
SYLUS ฅ^._.^ฅ
Sylus would most definitely adore his cute little kitty!hybrid. Your feisty behavior, sharp nails, and constant avoidance of him when it comes to bath time made his chest feel warm and always left a soft chuckle falling from those stupid lips of his. He would love watching as you constantly denied him of any affection, your ears always pinned against your head, soft hisses coming from those cute lips of yours. It was absolutely adorable watching you try to hide from him at bed time, watching as your little tail quickly flicked into the hiding spot you had chosen tonight (the cabinet under the sink in Luke and Kieran’s bathroom). Your actions never failed to amuse him. Despite your attempts to hide, the night always ended the same. You attempting to hide in peculiar places, the stupid mechanical crow (Mephisto) giving away your hiding spot, and Sylus throwing you over his shoulder and bringing you to his bedroom to dress you in your cute little pajamas and get you all nice and ready for bed time. No matter how much you tended to protest, you always ended up curled up in a little blanket burrito, ears flicked back in annoyance as you angrily purred at Sylus before ultimately falling asleep in his arms, ears drooping forward in relaxation. Oh, how Sylus loved his cute, little feisty kitty!hybrid.
ZAYNE /ᐠ.ᆽ.ᐟ\
Due to Zayne often being gone for most of the day due to his work, I feel as though he would be more likely to own a sweet little kitty!hybrid. While he would most likely adore a happy little puppy!hybrid, I feel like he would feel bad for spending 8+ hours gone from home for work which is why he would gravitate more towards a kitty!hybrid. He would adore coming home from a long, tiring shift just to see his sweet little kitty curled in one of his shirts, curled into a small little ball on his bed, blankets snug around your tiny frame as a soft purr rumbled in your chest while you slept. Before adopting you, Zayne often couldn’t sleep at night, often spending his time just staring at the ceiling, but since adopting you? It’s like waking from a coma every morning, you sleeping on top of his chest, practically glued to his body with the blankets haphazardly thrown off. The mornings he had off from work were worse. Most days, he got out of bed at exactly 6:30am (after fighting off your sharp claws and gently tucking you back into bed) But with you? On his off days, he gets out of bed at 9:00am after you finally decide that you’ve had your beauty sleep and gently paw at him for food, nuzzling him underneath his chin as your sleepy purrs continue. However, he wouldn't change a thing about you.
CALEB zᶻ ૮˶- ﻌ -˶ა⌒)ᦱ
Caleb, without a doubt, would love himself a sweet little puppy!hybrid. The hyperactiveness? That adorable wagging tail? The way you’d happily greet him at the door every day when he got off work? It healed a part of his soul. It had been a while since he had someone he could come home to, happy to see him. Someone he could cook a nice meal for, help feed you dinner, and even bathe and dress you for bed time. He absolutely loved that. Especially when you’d curl up under the covers with him at night, tail gently wagging behind you as you curled up into his side all comfy in the pajamas he had dressed you in tonight. And he loved being able to do it all over again in the mornings. Sure, he felt bad for leaving you home alone for so long during the day, but he made sure to give you extra attention in the mornings. He always woke up a bit earlier than you, making your breakfast and lunch for the day before picking out your cute little outfit for the day. Then, he (regrettably so) wakes your cute little face up and gets you all washed up in the shower, taking his time brushing through your hair and using the proper tools to properly brush and dry through your little ears and that hyperactive tail of yours. You were definitely his favorite part of the day.
RAFAYEL υ´• ﻌ •`υ
Okay, Rafayel was a little harder to decide on. Because, obviously, he wouldn’t want a kitty!hybrid. One, he’s a fish, two he wouldn’t want to risk a kitty!hybrid attacking his precious seagulls! However, I don’t think he might want a puppy!hybrid, unless they leave his precious seagulls alone and don’t tear up his shoes! And when he finds you? The embodiment of what he imagined the perfect little puppy!hybrid would be like? He’s ecstatic and doesn’t waste a second paying for you with more than enough cash and bringing you back to his studio! In hindsight… maybe the studio wasn’t the best place to bring you… You had already (accidentally) toppled over three whole paint cans, your little paws and tail now covered in paint, some of his paintings now having paw prints and little tail marks on them from you falling after tripping over the paint cans, and his bath room was now covered in painted paw prints as he gently washed off the paint from you in the bathtub. He could tell you felt guilty for knocking over his paint cans and “ruining” his art works. Your ears were pressed flat against your head, your (now clean) tail curled up close to your body as a small pout took residency on your soft lips. After that little accident, he usually kept you close to him, especially when he painted, making sure that you couldn’t cause any chaos but still letting you be involved in his painting process. Now, all of his paintings were signed with a cute little paw print in the corner, making sure that everyone knew his paintings were inspired by his cute little puppy!hybrid, if it wasn’t obvious enough by the portraits he would paint of you, most of them a little blurry and messy due to you never being able to sit still! But, Rafayel didn’t mind much that you came into his life with such chaos, he was just happy to have someone to spend his time with and a new muse to inspire his art.
angel whisps : hi guys !! first post hehe (i was so nervous posting this...) if there are any grammatical errors or mis-characterizations in your opinion pls let me know !! would love to hear your thoughts !!
cw: mouth inspection. dry humping. power imbalance (but very consensual). reader has a vagina. wc: 1057. a/n: a rework of an ancient drabble because it’s kinktober and i miss my yuwuji <3
The leaves of the cherry tree outside your living room shiver in the breeze, scratching a chilly song against the windowpane. Aureate sunbeams filter through both the branches and your cheap blinds, casting luminescent puddles onto the couch where you lie.
Sunday mornings are halcyon in your cozy apartment, always spent the same way: lazing about with your tiger hybrid, his broad frame curled around yours as he shields you from the stress of the impending work week. Your face is buried in his strong, tawny chest, and his chin rests protectively against your crown.
Yuuji chuffs in contentment when you reach up to scratch his rosy ears; the vocalization puffs against your hair as his sinuous tail gently bats your hip. When you try to withdraw your hand, he whines, chasing you with his nose. As you let him nuzzle into your touch, he laps at your skin.
Chuckling, you bask in the comfort of his affection. When you adopted him a few months ago, his clinginess concerned you, and you worried he wouldn’t acclimate to your work schedule. But he’s shockingly self-sufficient: he runs errands, does laundry, cooks better than you ever could, and cleans. He also quells all your concerns that he does too much for you (which he answers with a beaming smile and reassurance that it’s the very least he can do).
Now, his affection dances from the center of your palm to the tip of your pointer finger, and he wraps his tongue around the digit before nipping the pad. He pulls away from your intoxicating scent and warmth—barely, as his breath still ghosts your flesh—and his striped ears twitch.
“You know how you told me to come to you when I need anything?” Yuuji murmurs.
“Of course,” you hum. “I meant it.”
When he takes several beats to reply, you ask, “Why? Have you made another sticky mess on my pillow?”
While you can’t see his face from this angle, his bare chest flushes, the heat radiating through your thin layers. He splutters, “N-no! I haven’t done that in—”
Your airy laughter cuts him off. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Don’t be mean,” he pouts.
“I can’t help myself—you’re too cute.” You pinch his nose for emphasis, and he scrunches it in response.
“What I wanted to know,” he starts again, cheeks still blooming rose, “is if you could, um, playwithmymouthprettyplease?”
“Hm?” You quirk an eyebrow.
“The vet said I had to stop chewing so much ice—remember?”
“Yeah. It’s bad for your teeth if you do it too often.”
“Aaaand I may have chewed through all my toys…”
You sigh. “No new toys until next month, Yuu. They’re too expensive to replace on a weekly basis. Unfortunately, I’m not made of money.”
The hybrid’s ears flatten against his head. “I know, I know. But my mouth feels so…empty.” He shifts a little, now fidgeting with the fuzzy tip of his tail. You roll onto your side to look him in the eyes. “I—um, just need something to occupy it. My gums ache, and my jaw hurts because I keep clenching it and grinding my teeth. I try to work everything out on my own, but I...I thought maybe you could help.”
Wide, pleading, and earnest, Yuuji’s gaze reminds you of honey. If you stare for too long, you’ll get a toothache. You feel a little flustered by his request—pointedly ignoring the obvious why—but you couldn’t possibly say no to him. Instead, you offer Yuuji a reassuring smile. “There’s no need for you to be embarrassed; I’m always happy to help. Can you open wide for me?”
Your willingness draws a pleased chuff from him, and he complies, baring his maw. Accentuated by glinting upper and lower incisors, the rows of honed teeth are a frightening sight. But your hybrid would rather die a thousand excruciating deaths than ever cause you harm. You begin by running a fingertip along his slick gums, gingerly massaging the pink tissue.
Garbled whines flutter past Yuuji’s drooling tongue; his eyes water, irises hazy with relief. By the time you reach his molars, you have to hold his tongue down with your middle and ring fingers, using your index to rub around his teeth. Saliva pools at the bottom of his mouth and dribbles down his chin. A pleased sigh leaves his stretched lips, and his hips jerk forward, something firm brushing against your belly.
Your body’s response is immediate. You swallow dryly, acutely aware of your intimate position. Incapable of thinking coherently—let alone speaking—you ask dumbly, “Are you turned on, Yuu?”
He doesn’t attempt to deny it. “Thowy,” he pants with your fingers heavy on his tongue. Dew collects at his temples and his skin burns crimson. Rather than putting space between your bodies, he scoots closer—until his bulge fully presses against you, its heat and weight undeniable, his syrupy gaze slowing your mind and seeping into your limbs.
Arousal knots itself deep in your core as you stare at your companion: hot, needy, eager. Rationally, you know your relationship with Yuuji is imbalanced; you don’t want to take advantage of him. But your logical brain is currently losing to the primal desire coursing through your veins. So, against your better judgment, you begin to grind against him.
Losing focus, Yuuji roughly grabs your hips, clawed nails biting into the fat. His lips close around your digits to lave and suck in a way that makes your pussy clench in anticipation, imagining what it would feel like lower on your body. He flops onto his back and hoists you up to straddle his thighs, angling you so his throbbing length rubs right against your clit. Staccattoed moans drift through the heady air, which you’d be mortified by if you hadn’t already lost all your sanity.
“Fuck,” you hiss, unable to do anything but roll your hips and chase pleasure. You extract your fingers from Yuuji’s mouth, cradling his burning face before melting into him, a heap of spit and teeth and tongue.
“I’m s-sorry,” he groans against your lips before licking them. He kneads your ass as he rocks you against clothed cock, tail grazing your ankle so tenderly it hurtles you toward an earth-shattering orgasm. “Gonna make it up to you—promise.”
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time.
AKA you have to forget Clark, but it doesn't really stick.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, memory fic, insecurity, angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, double love confessions for your buck, shameless smut (body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v, doggy), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This one is very special to me. Enjoy!✦
Someone is watching you. You can feel it, prickling on the back of your neck and making your stomach do odd, little flips. Like it’s trying to pull you in the direction of the attention, even though you can’t think of one good reason for someone to be looking at you.
You’re hiding at your desk, head down, typing fast enough to make the clacking sounds almost louder than the music in your ears. Nobody bothers you when you’re focused like this. People don’t really bother you period. Not at work, when you’re purposefully drowning everything else out.
But you can feel someone.
And when you pause, just to scan around the office and check that you’re not insane, everyone’s eyes are on their own computers or each other. Jimmy and Lois are having a low conversation near the coffee. Cat is examining her nails while snapping at someone on the phone. Steve is laughing at something on his phone—a little too loudly, in the boisterous, fake way that always makes you pretty sure he’s not actually seeing anything funny, and just wants someone to come talk to him—while Perry watches the TV with a focused frown, and Clark stares at his computer.
Just stares at it. Doesn’t type. Doesn’t scroll.
He’s probably just reading something, very intently, over and over.
You look back to your own computer, and call it paranoia.
That would be why your skin feels raw, when you start to type again. Nobody’s watching you—and you check again, just to make sure—and you’re just paranoid.
You’ve been oddly paranoid lately, so it’s tracking. You’re checking the locks of your windows and doors three or four times before you go to bed, like you’re in Gotham. You keep running back up the stairs after you try to leave for work, just to make sure you closed the door. When you walk down the street your gaze lingers on longer shadows, and you look up to the sky as if you’re checking for something.
You’re not.
You don’t even know what you’d be looking for.
All you do know is that you feel like someone is watching you, but they’re not. That you’re paranoid, but it’s likely lack of sleep.
You haven’t really been sleeping, either. Your bed has felt too cold, lately. Too empty. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to even lie in it for more than twenty minutes at a time, resorting to trying to sleep on the couch.
Which is probably why your back always hurts, now.
It hasn’t been a good few weeks. Everything has felt off.
But it’ll pass.
Hopefully.
It’s not, but hopefully, it will.
Someone taps on your shoulder, and you almost jump out of your skin, hand flying out in a faster reaction than you can process.
You smack Jimmy in the jaw, and he stumbles back with wide eyes.
“Oh my god, I’m-“ You yank off your headphones, reaching out nervously. “Jimmy, I’m so, so sorry, you scared me, I’m- I don’t know why I did that, I’m so-“
“Jesus, stop apologizing.” Jimmy gives you a small grin, dropping his hand from where a red mark is starting to form. “I’m alright. Made of steel, you know me.”
You blink at him, and suddenly feel a little dizzy.
“You don’t need to get me a band-aid, sweetheart. They don’t say I’m made of steel because it sounds cool.”
“I, um-“ You shake your head, giving Jimmy another apologetic look. “Do you want some ice?”
“Nah. That sounds cold.”
“It’s ice-“
“Yeah. Cold. I’m a big boy,” he says your name with a shrug. “I’ll live, you know?”
“I guess, but-“
“Can I ask you a question?”
You blink, and Jimmy’s staring at you with an odd intensity. “Yes?”
“Did you guys have a fight?”
“You… guys?” You shake your head, spinning your pencil nervously between your fingers, and Jimmy nods.
“Yeah. You and Clark.”
“Me and-“ Your eyes dart over to Clark’s desk, and he’s still staring at his computer. He’s scrolling now, though. Typing a few words, then scrolling again.
You haven’t spoken to him all morning. And he doesn’t look all that bothered. His hair is messy, and from his side profile you can tell his glasses are a little askew, but that’s just Clark.
“No?” You look back to Jimmy. “Why would we have had a fight?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” He shrugs, looking over to Clark himself. “Poor guy just has been looking bummed. I thought someone yelled at him, but he hasn’t even really been talking to anyone. Which is weird, right?”
Jimmy looks at you like you’re supposed to agree, and you give him a tight smile.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy nods to himself. “I mean, he’s Clark. He talks. We all talk. And I don’t know- Maybe I should set him up on another blind date. He hasn’t said yes to me in like, a year, but now- Poor guy might be feeling the loneliness.”
Something tugs on your heart. It’s sore and hot and makes your skin fucking itch.
Your pencil flies across the room, as you accidentally fling it from your fingers. Hits Steve in the back of the head, making you wince.
“Damn, you’re on a roll, killer.” Jimmy grins as Steve glares around to see the culprit. You quickly pick up another pencil. “Is there something going on with you I should be worried about? Are you secretly a vigilante
“No, I’m just…” You take a deep breath, glancing back over to Clark.
You don’t know why you keep looking at him. It’s like you’re looking for some kind of reaction, and you don’t even know to what.
“It’s just a bad week.” You mutter, and Jimmy nods.
“Right, first one back from vacation. Those always suck.”
“Huh?” You’re not really listening, mostly just staring at Clark. His leg is bouncing.
That means something.
You can’t fucking remember what.
“Your vacation. How was it, by the way?” Jimmy bumps your shoulder with his coffee, and you blink.
“How was… my vacation?”
“Yeah. Cuba, right? Or… Cairo. China? It was somewhere with a C. I think. I don’t know.” Jimmy laughs to himself. “Clark did tell me you were going, so maybe I’m just thinking of him.”
“Oh.” You swallow, and Clark’s leg is still fucking bouncing.
“You’re doing it again.” You smile at him, poking your foot against his shin, and he blinks up at you.
“I, uh- I’m not doing anything-“
“You were listening to me. I know you were.”
“But I didn’t even look-“
“I know.” You smile at him. “I just know you. Do you think we should do Rio?”
He turns a little red, eyes darting around the office to make sure no one else is watching, then places his hand on the back of your thigh. Squeezes gently, and gives you a small smile.
“I’ll go where you want, baby. But if you’re asking-“
“I am-“
“Then I’ve been thinking we could go to-“
“Redwood park.” You mutter, looking back to Jimmy. “I think I just went to see the Redwoods, Jimmy.”
“Oh. Well, California starts with C.” Jimmy glances over to Clark. “You should’ve brought Clark with you. He’s always wanted to see those things. Don’t know why he hasn’t. We get plenty of vacation time.”
You nod. “I- I don’t know why either.” You whisper, and Clark’s head turns.
For a split second, your eyes meet. And something flashes over his handsome features that you can’t quite place.
Then he looks away, and his leg stops bouncing.
Your head sort of hurts.
But it’s just been an off week. Jimmy leaves you alone, and you can’t do anything but stare blankly at your computer screen, hoping your fingers will remember how to do anything but spin a pencil, and your brain will clear of this strange fog.
You don’t even remember going on vacation.
And it feels like there's a massive fucking hole, in the center of your chest. It’s got an odd shape. It hums and kicks into a loud gear—like an echo through a cave, a ghostly replication of something that had been there before—whenever you feel it again.
Someone is watching you.
Your pencil flies out of your fingers again.
But when you look around to see if anyone noticed, they haven’t.
It’s like nothing ever happened at all.
The day moves fast, but the strange feeling doesn’t fade. It only gets more and more pressing, until it feels like there’s something iron wrapping around your lungs. Maybe you should go back to therapy. You’re not sure why you left it in the first place.
There’s just a faint impression of it not working. Of something on your tongue you couldn’t let go, that was holding you back from saying anything at all.
But it’s gone now.
You just wish you’d known what it fucking was.
There are a lot of things that are making you feel that. Like you’d had something in your hands, and it had been taken away. Leaving your skin covered in a soot or stardust you don’t know how to wash off, because you can’t even fucking see it. And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still paranoid. It’s all you’ve been, lately, and there’s no reason for it to just vanish when you go to work.
It’s almost certainly the paranoia.
It will be a whole lot easier, if it’s just the paranoia.
If people have noticed you’re acting differently, they don’t say anything. You fumble your coffee when Lex Luther comes onto one of the TV screens, and Lois gives you an odd, worryingly gentle look, but helps you clean up. Perry talks to you about your article about international metahuman law, and you type slowly, struggling to remember where you found any of your sources. Superman has another save—a kitten, in a tree, and for some reason that makes you feel fuzzy—and you stare at the screen for a little too long. You only stop staring because Cat hits your arm, amusement sparkling in her eyes.
“He’s cute, right?”
“I- Superman?” You can feel your cheeks heat, and this shouldn’t be making you flush. It’s Superman. Everyone thinks he’s cute.
“You think I’m cute?”
“Don’t get a big head.”
“I can’t. Ma raised me better than that, sweetheart. And my head is already huge, but it’s mostly just facts about cows.”
“Yeah? What kind of facts?”
“All of them. Did you know people used to use “cow” as a compliment?”
You smile at him, and there’s something earnest on his face that always makes it hard to even play fake mean. “How the fuck would you use cow as a compliment.”
“Like, uh- You’ve got cow eyes, baby.” He squeezes your hip, and you giggle.
“I have cow eyes?”
“Yeah. But you’re my cow.” He pauses, then frowns. “I don’t like that. It makes seem like, I don’t know, I won you at a county fair.”
You lean down, mock-pouting at him. “So you don’t think I’m a prize?”
“No, I just-“ He sighs. “Can we pretend I never said anything?”
“Nope. I’m your cow, Mr. Kent.”
He groans. “Gosh, no, don’t say that-“
“It’s too late. Live with the consequences of your actions.”
“But I regret this action, I regret it a lot, I should have just told you how to milk a cow- No.” He gives you a firm look, and you’re giggling so much you might fall over. “I know that face, baby, no.”
You shake your head, pushing your words through the laughter. “Were you going to do a demonstration, farm boy? You’ve milked me before.”
“Alright. Come here.”
A large, warm hand glides up to your waist, and you’re still giggling when he pulls you forward. He doesn’t look cute anymore. He just looks handsome, darkened eyes on you, lips curled in a small grin as he watches you-
Cat says your name, waving a hand in your face.
“Sorry, I- Um-“ You look around, and the room isn’t spinning, but all the color seems to be washed out. Like there should be a reason for them to be vibrant, and you can’t find it at all. “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Okay.” Cat shrugs, looking back to the TV. “Weird thing to tell me, though.”
“Yeah, um- Sorry.”
You almost run away from her, and your stomach feels like it’s rising up your throat. Something is wrong. It’s paranoia, but it still feels wrong, and you don’t know where you’re going but you know it needs to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere nobody can touch you, or see you, or say your name. Somewhere in the dark, where your chest won’t keep trying to pull at something you can’t name, where you can put a hand on your throat and just breathe-
You’re only watching your feet, as you walk, because you need to walk in a straight line. You’re not dizzy. It just feels like you’re wading through mud, and if you’re not counting every step you’ll fall over.
So when you turn the corner, you don’t see him until it’s too late, and you’re slamming right into his chest.
“Hey, woah.” Clark's arm wraps around your waist, and your fingers fly to grab the lapels of his suit jacket.
You stare at each other. There’s that same, strange look from before, and it’s everywhere. In the slight, worried pout of his lips, the furrow of his brow, and somehow in the strong line of his nose. His eyes are burning into you, and that buzzing feeling starts to push up your throat, spreading and spreading until the hollow in your chest stirs, and Clark’s hand flexes on your back-
“Taste it.”
He frowns at your offering, a finger covered in frosting. “I know what frosting tastes like, sweetheart. You just slipped, I want to look at your knee-“
“What are you, a doctor?”
“No, but I think I’ve learned enough to know if need to take you to the hospital, and I can x-ray for free-“
You cut him off with a strange noise. It’s as if it’s coming from underwater, muffled and strange. You can’t really hear it at all. “It’s just my fucking ankle. Look,” you swing it dramatically, and his frown deepens. He doesn’t let go of you.
You poke his nose with the frosting, and giggle as his eyes cross to look at it.
“Geez, you really want me to try this frosting.”
“Well, I made it, and I want your opinion.”
He nods, tongue shooting up to lick it off. And it takes a few seconds of ridiculousness for him to get it, but he does. Because he can do fucking anything.
And your heartbeat is in your ears, now.
“That’s really good, baby.” He looks at you with a proud grin, and you don’t give a shit about the cupcakes anymore.
He can see that.
His throat bobs, and his ears turn red as his voice drops.
“You’re sure your ankles okay-“
“Yes.” You cut him off quickly, and his lips twitch.
“May I please have a full cupcake, after we finish?”
You nod, a little like a bobblehead, and he grins at you like he won the lottery.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” He leans down until your noses are bumping. “But just so you know, you’re still my favorite dessert.”
“Are you okay?” Clark says, and it jumpstarts your body.
You shove him back quickly, eyes wide, and try not to think about how he looks like a wounded puppy.
He says your name gently, like he’s trying to soothe a feral animal, and you take another uneven step back.
“I- I’m- I don’t-“
Clark’s voice becomes a little more urgent. “Come here, sw-“ He swallows, syllables sliding together. “We need to get you sitting down-“
“No- No-“ You take a ragged breath. You don’t want him to touch you. Your whole body is leaning to him, like he’s got the gravity of something more than a man, but if Clark touches you, it’s going to hurt deeper than your skin. “I- I’m okay. I’m okay.”
Clark doesn’t look convinced by your repetition. “I know you might feel okay, but- You were staring at me for five minutes, I- Uh- I just think you should rest-“
“I’ll rest. I can rest.” You nod, taking another unsteady step back. The whole earth feels like it’s sliding below your feet. “I might have, like- Food poisoning? Maybe? I’m just- I’m not feeling well, Clark-“
“I know, we can go to the doctor- I mean, not we, but- You and someone-“ The strangeness flashes over his features again. “It can be me. I can drive. I’m good at it, sweetheart, I can drive you-“
“No, I’ll take the subway, I’m- Can you just tell Perry I got sick. Please?”
“I-“
“Thank you, Clark. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You don’t wait for his response, don’t look back as you almost scramble out of the hallway.
It’s still just the paranoia. You’re just off, and maybe you did get food poisoning. You’d eaten some strange, old pastries that had been at the back of your refrigerator last night. You didn’t even remember putting them there, and they’d tasted fine, but maybe it was a fake fineness.
No. It’s all fine.
There’s still that carved-out, empty feeling in your chest, but you’re fine.
You’ll take a day. Maybe get back with a therapist, or install new locks on your door and windows. Everything will be fine.
Everything was not fine.
You’re having nightmares. And they’re of strange things you’ve never even seen before, like colorful, lava rivers and infinite blackness and odd, jagged edges of strangely shaped cliffs. You’re having nightmares of a gun to your brow and a shining light in your eyes and so much cold. You can’t really feel anything in the nightmares, but you can feel cold, and it makes you wake up shivering and screaming until your voice goes hoarse.
The one day you took off didn’t do much—you mostly just stared at the ceiling, and tried to will everything into being better, which obviously didn’t fucking work—and the moment you’re back at work, everything starts to move too fast for you to catch your breath.
You were gone for three weeks, on a vacation you don’t remember. There’s work that needs catching up on, informants and sources you apparently forgot to tell about your vacation that you need to reach out to, and a lot of time that needs to be wasted on the floor of the bathroom.
It still feels like someone is watching you, in the office. Still feels like something vital is missing from your chest, like an organ that’s been removed. With the nightmares, your sleep doesn’t get better. The paranoia only grows, until you beg Perry to give you a desk that has your back to the wall.
He obliges, with a frown and muttered weird kids.
And you’re slightly calmed, by being able to see everyone who comes in and out of the room. Nobody can surprise you, anymore. When you feel like someone is watching you, all you have to do is look up.
“Just look up.” He says, fingers tracing slowly over the bare skin of your arm. “All you ever need to do is look up, and I’ll be there.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” you say the noise you can’t hear. “What if you’re in Kansas, or- I don’t know, France-“
He cuts you off with a deep, slow kiss that makes you dizzy. “Then call my name.” He mutters against your lips. “And I’ll come for you.”
You rub your eyes, and all the lights are a little too bright. You might need to start wearing sunglasses to work. Inside. Like you have a permanent hangover.
It certainly feels permanent. All these strange, invasive phantom thoughts.
Nowhere is safe from them. It’s why you like the bathroom so much. Sparse and quiet and lonely—which is only making the nightmares worse—but without anything to set you off.
Because fucking everything sets you off.
“Shit.” You mutter, wrinkling your nose at the fridge, then checking the time on your phone. “Shit.”
“What’s shit?” Lois asks, standing over your shoulder, and you slam the door closed.
“I- fuck-“ The sound echoes through the room, and it was too big for such a tiny little thing.
It hums at you. Tauntingly. About how you can be as mean and crude as you want, but it’s still solid. It’s not melting apart at the seams.
You kick it, for good measure, and grunt as it refuses to budge. Stupid fucking fridge.
Lois laughs softly. “I think you beat it.”
“Thanks.” You mutter, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “It’s too late anyway.”
“Too late?”
“I forgot my lunch.”
“Seriously? That’s what you tried to murder the fridge over- Right, sorry.” She smiles apologetically at your glare. “Not just a joke, this time. Didn’t read that one right.”
“No, it’s-“ You let out a slow breath, and you’re so fucking tired. “You’re right, it’s stupid-“
“It’s not stupid, it’s just kind of insane.” She gives you a small smile. “Forgetting food sucks. I’m sorry I laughed at your plight.”
You huff, just through your nose, but with everything feeling a little lighter. It sucks. It’s not the end of everything.
“Who forgot their food?” Clark says, and you turn to see him frowning at you and Lois with an odd intensity. “Lois, you ate earlier, you got taco all over my keyboard-“
“No, I didn’t. That was Jimmy.”
“But Jimmy said it was-“
“Jimmy is a liar. And I didn’t forget my lunch,” she says your name, and all of Clark’s attention seems to hone in on you. It makes you feel fucking dizzy. “She did.”
“You did?” There’s a depth to the concern in his voice. Like you’re swimming into the ocean, when it was just supposed to be the deep end of the pool, and now he’s worried everything is going to sweep you away. “What happened?”
“I don’t know.” You try to hold his gaze, as you speak. It’s shockingly difficult. As if you’re staring at the sun, instead of clear, blue eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Must have thought I grabbed it, then didn’t. I’ll be-“
Clark cuts in, voice earnest. “Do you want mine?”
“No, yours looks like it was made out of dead fish guts.”
“Huh.” He frowns at his spaghetti, still in the white take-out box. “I think it’s just like- Gooey pasta.”
“Wrong, fish guts.” You keep his arm around your shoulders, holding one of his large hands in both of yours, playing with his fingers as you examine dinner. “Why couldn’t we just do pizza?”
“Because Pa taught me to treat a lady-“
“To fish guts?”
“To fancy food.” He kisses the side of your head, dropping the food onto the plate. “If it tastes bad, I can hold your hair back while you vomit.”
“What if you vomit,” you say the noise you can’t hear, and he grins at you.
“I don’t get sick, darling.”
“Maybe. But look at this, I’m sure it could do the job, even on you-“
He kisses you, and your words fall into a loud, long moan. He smiles against your lips, and you wish he’d never figured out this trick for shutting you up. It’s playing dirty, for someone who always follows the rules. You think he justifies it to himself with how you try to chase him when he pulls away, and how he always asks you to finish your thought. As if the kiss was just to kiss.
This beautiful, sweet man might really believe it is just a kiss.
Something low shines in his eyes, though, when he finally gets you to come up for air.
And he fucking knows.
“Gosh,” he mutters, looking over to the food. “You think this will make me sick?”
“Maybe.” You blink at him slowly. “I don’t know.”
“Huh. I mean, I don’t mind pizza. If you don’t mind. I can go get it, right now, but, um- Only if you think this will make me sick-“
You say the sound you can’t hear softly. “I know you worked hard to get this, you don’t have to-“
“No, I think I want pizza.” He leans down, holding your gaze. “Do you want pizza, sweetheart?”
“Yes.” You smile at him, planting a small kiss on his nose. “Please.”
Clark says your name, and you swallow. You don’t feel hungry, anymore. Only sick.
“I’m good, Clark.” You mutter, ripping your gaze down to your shoes. “Thank you.”
You almost run back to your desk, and start talking to people at work less and less. They seem to always set it off—the empty space, the echo—more than anyone else. And avoiding them isn’t a permanent solution, but it should ease the vastness of everything feeling like it’s just fucking wrong.
It should.
But as long as you’re where people can say things to you, it doesn’t.
“You look nice tonight.” A guy with dark hair and darker eyes grins at you, taking a slow swig of his beer like you’re supposed to respond.
You turn your glass in your hands, and give him a small smile. He’s pretty. Not that pretty, but enough to make you not hate looking. And in the dark—once you’re one drink deeper and everything has been numbed a little more—it won’t fucking matter.
“You end up here often?”
You smile, and try not to make it too many teeth. Just be easy, and you can forget better. “Here, or at a bar?”
He laughs. Not a bad sound. Just sort of flat, like there’s an element of it that’s missing. “Either, dollface.”
“Well, I’ve been here a few times.” You try to keep your voice light and breathy. You feel fucking insane. “But usually, I’m just soliciting.”
“Yeah? For what?”
“Mormons.”
The man laughs again, and you try to make your smile wider. The drink can get you halfway there, easily.
It’s the rest of you, that’s always the problem.
You end up in a booth, half on the lap of your bar man—Jack or Jax or Max or Miles or Martholomew, but it really doesn’t fucking matter—and with your tongue shoved down his throat. You’re grabbing at his shoulders and dragging him forward as you try to grind down, but it feels like trying to start a fire with soggy driftwood.
There’s just not enough of him. This man is nice enough, but there’s something shaped like the hole in your body that’s missing. His hands are possessive, but they should be teasing and gentle as well. As if you’re a delicate work of blown glass, that’s stronger than it looks but still needs care. He should let you play until you get tired, and he eagerly jumps in to take over. He’s supposed to have slightly longer hair, and bigger hands, and wrap around you as he kisses, as if he’s more shield than man.
You don’t have any idea where you got those fantasies.
No one has ever touched you like that. Kissed you like that. Been enough that you’d hold them higher than the sun.
“Yeah, doll,” the man grabs your ass as he drawls. “You’re such a dirty girl, aren’t you.”
You frown against his lips. That’s not right either. He’s supposed to say-
“There you go.” He keeps your legs spread apart easily, pushing a finger in until it’s knuckle deep. “Yeah. That’s it. Oh fuck, you’re soaked.”
A loud, desperate moan tears through your lips, the word fuck maybe the most sinful thing in the world, when it’s from his lips. “Please, I- I need it, just-“ You try to roll your hips forward, grabbing at the sheets. “Please-“
“You’ll get it, baby.” He kisses your inner thigh, rubbing the sensitive skin in firm circles. “I always help you, don’t I? I take care of you.”
“Yeah, yes, you do, but- Fuck-“ You moan the sound you can’t hear, grabbing at his wrist. “More-“
“Can you relax, darling? For me, please?”
You go slack, and he grins.
“There you go. That’s my good girl.”
For a moment, as the bar comes back into focus, you’re frozen.
Then the man grunts from below you, and you almost vault off his lap.
Wrong.
Everything, everywhere, is so fucking wrong.
You leave with rushed apologies and a twenty-dollar payment for two drinks—too much, but you just need to go so they can keep the tip—and try not to trip over yourself running home.
And you check the locks, twice. Close the windows and keep all the lights on, even as you get ready for bed.
But it’s not safe.
Not anywhere.
You’re digging through your underwear drawer, and your fingers brush over a thick, warm fabric. When you pull it out, it’s a flannel that smells of stale amber and wood. It feels right, on your fingers, but you don’t have a clue where it came from, or why it’s here.
But it’s warm. Even after months at the bottom of a cold dresser, it’s so warm. Like an ember. Like something clinging to a flickering fire that just refuses to die. That sparks, just when it’s about to go out.
That keeps you warm.
“Put it on, baby. Please.”
“No.” You raise a hand, blocking him from your view. “Puppy eyes don’t work on me,” you hum the noise you can’t hear, grinning out at the field. “I am perfectly warm. I’m basically a furnace. I think I could power the eastern seaboard, with how warm I am.”
“I, um- I don’t think that’s how energy works, sweetheart-“
“But maybe it does.”
He sighs, even as the heavy sound is laced with affection. “Okay. That can be how it works, but- Please. Put it on.” He pauses. “For me?”
You drop your hand, and glare at his pretty, innocent face—which is a fucking act, because he was face deep in your pussy like three hours ago—and hopeful, clear eyes. He just smiles at you nervously, still holding out the flannel, and you roll your eyes.
“I hate it when you play that card.”
He blinks, looking honestly confused. “What card?”
“Shut up.” You grab the flannel out of his hand, and he grins.
“Yes, ma’am. Do you want help putting it on?”
You nod, shuffling closer to his side. If it were anyone else, they’d get a biting, harsh no. You can do it yourself, it’s just a flannel, and—because you’re not fucking seven—you know how sleeves and buttons work.
But it’s him. And you want a reason to be as close to him as possible, so you can figure out how to crawl into his lap after. Be as surrounded by him as possible, and run your fingers through curly hair as he breathes against your neck. It makes you shiver, the feeling of his lips grazing sensitive spots on your throat while his hands splay over your back.
“I’m not cold anymore.” You mumble in his ear, and you can feel his lips curve into a smile.
“Sorry, darling, but- I thought you weren’t cold at all?”
“Don’t be mean.” You whine the sound you can’t hear into his neck, and he chuckles.
“I’ve been learning from the best. And she,” he kisses a spot behind your ear. “Is also so smart, and cares so much, and never lets anything hold her down-“
“That’s not true.” You grumble. “I let a lot of things hold me down.”
“Yeah, but you never give up,” he pulls back, holding your face gently in his hands. His thumb traces over your cheek, and it feels like he’s taking you apart. “You’re strong.”
You laugh dryly. “You’ve been through more.”
“Yeah. Once a goat ate my favorite shirt, and- Gosh, sweetheart, remember how the ice cream place didn’t have the flavor I wanted to show you.” He grins, kissing your cheek. “I’m basically going to hell and back.”
“I’ve had banana splits before-“
“Not like these, though-“
You sigh the sound you can’t hear, and he falls silent. “You know what I mean.”
Something blurs. Like you’re scrubbing through film footage. The world moves fast, and you’re being pulled like a puppet. Saying something, but not having a clue what. Like your voice was taken from your throat. Then it slows down, the world resuming, and your voice resumes.
“I just think- It’s not the same-“
“I know it’s not the same.” He mutters your name, kissing your knuckles. At some point, his hand had taken yours during the blur. You hadn’t even noticed. “But you still get through a lot of stuff, baby. I think it would make most people fall.”
You smile at him sadly, voice dropping to a whisper. “I think it makes me want to fall, sometimes.”
“Well.” He folds his fingers through yours, and the sleeve of his flannel flops slightly. It looks like you don’t really stop at all. You just continue. Right into him. “I’m pretty freaking grateful that you don’t.”
The flannel gets shoved back into the underwear drawer.
You stop looking around at things.
And it’s not fine. Nothing’s fucking fine. You’re not talking to anyone, really. Not going anywhere. Hiding in your own bed, just knowing that something is so incredibly off, as the echoes continue to grow, but you don’t have a word for it. And if you tried to find one, you’d sound fucking bananas. At best, you’re just having hyper-realistic daydreams that are freaking you out way more than they should. At worst, you have a brain tumor.
You’ve explored all the options, in your new favorite place, the bathroom floor. And you’ve settled on a very sustainable do nothing until you either drop dead or someone pins you down and makes you get help. It’s a strategy that’s worked well this long, and nobody has managed to get you pinned down at all.
“You’ve got a flu, sweetheart, you need to stay in bed-“
“You can’t make me,” you sing the sound you can’t hear, spinning in a wide circle, all the colors neon and pastel around you. “You’re not my boss, and you’re not bigger than me. I am,” you wrap your arms around his neck. “Bigger than a mouse.”
“Well, that’s not wrong.” He sighs, and picks you up as if you weigh nothing.
“Wow.” You poke at his muscles, squirming in his arms. “You’re strong. And big.”
“I, uh- Thanks.”
“And hot. It’s so hot.” You whine the sound you can’t hear. “Why is it so hot?”
“That’s the fever, darling.” He sounds amused, but kisses the side of your head so gently. “I’ll text Perry from your phone, okay?”
“Okay.” You mumble, clinging to his shirt when he tries to set you down. “Can you stay?”
He sighs, scanning carefully over your face. “I have work, and- You know, the other thing-“
Everything blurs again. But this time, all of his words blurring together while you’re stuck in a static. Then it all resumes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all.
“Please?” You pout, and he nods slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I mean, I can’t make a promise about that, but- I swear to you I’ll see what I can do-“
“Yay.” You beam, and flop back down onto the mattress. “I love you, Martian Man.”
“Different guy. And, um- Wrong planet.” He kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter shut. “But I love you too, my cow.”
You hum. “Would you buy me in an auction?”
“You know I’m not answering that, pretty girl.” He mutters, and he’s using the other voice. The deeper, smooth one that always makes you listen to whatever you say. “Go to sleep.”
The lights are getting long. The shadows of the small, Daily Planet bathroom feel longer.
Your eyes are stinging with tears, and you wipe them with the thin corporate napkins.
Spend a little too long looking in the mirror.
Apparently, your thoughts aren’t fully safe anymore either, even in the quiet.
And you’d never said I love you. To anyone.
But you said it to him.
The man who just lives in your head, who you can’t even afford to give a name, pulls love out of you in a way that feels bigger than the hole in your chest. In a way like a tree. Always growing and growing and taking deeper root, until it’s embedded in the Earth.
And he loves you back.
But only in your fucking head.
“I’m not saying it’s weird.” Steve is almost shouting at Jimmy and Lois, and you poke your head over your computer to watch. “You know I’m a big fan of the guys, Lois, I’m just asking questions! Isn’t that our job?”
“To… learn about Kryptonian biology?” Lois snorts, taking a sip of her coffee. “No, I think that’s up to scientists, Steve.”
“Well, they have nothing to study-“
“Neither do we, dude.” Jimmy’s grin is shit-eating. “It’s not like Superman is in this room, so we can ask him questions about his penis.”
Clark coughs loudly, and you frown at him. His leg is bouncing, and his ears look a little red.
Lois sees it as well, and calls across the room, “You alright, Clark?”
“Uh, yeah- I’m, yeah.” Clark clears his throat, shooting to his feet and walking over to join their group.
Which is gathered near your desk.
It’s not making you nervous so much as wired. With every step Clark takes across the room, you feel more and more like electricity is humming under your skin, sparking up in that emptiness and just making everything very fucking confusing.
Then Clark looks at you.
Only a quick glance, with that same worry in his brow and odd shine in his eyes. It’s the only way he’s been looking at you, lately.
You flush, and look back to your computer with everything in you feeling like it’s on fire.
“Um-“ Clark’s words are low, and you see him shake his head in your periphery. He’s looking at you. For too long, you can see the clearness of his eyes, feel them singeing on your skin.
Then he looks away.
And you just feel cold.
“What are we talking about?” He asks the group, and Steve scowls.
“I don’t want your thoughts on it, Kansas, I’m looking for the big leagues opinion-“
“Steve wants us to give Superman a pat-down.” Jimmy says quickly. “The full TSA. He says it’s for science.”
“Which is a ridiculous claim.” Lois adds. “But also pointless. Because what, are you going to just call him out of the sky and start asking him questions?”
“I mean...” Steve pauses. “Isn’t that just what you and Kent do?”
“No. Or, well-“ Clark coughs. “Sort of, I guess. But we’re asking him important questions. About world politics.”
Jimmy raises his hand. “Didn’t your last interview with him consist of only questions about cows and breakfast.”
You peek over your computer again, and Clark is blushing.
“I- He had a hard few weeks-“
“Or you’re just a pussy, right?” Steve laughs, raising his hand for a high five, and Lois gives him a flat look.
“None of us are high-fiving that, man.”
“Whatever.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Why does Kent get to work with Superman and not me.”
Jimmy laughs. “You write sports, dude-“
“I’m sure he has opinions! The people want to know who he is! What baseball team he’s rooting for this season!”
“Yeah,” Lois shakes her head. “I don’t think that’s what people want to know about Superman.”
“I know.” The wind is biting at your skin, and you’re glaring at him in the dark.
This seems like it’s from a long, long time ago. The air is hotter, your shirt one you think you lost months ago. When you reach up to nervously run your fingers through your hair, that’s different as well. And he’s across from you, something different in his clear eyes.
Different from all the other flashes.
The same as it seems to be now.
He sighs, taking a large step forward. “Can we not do this on the roof, please? I’m worried you’re going to catch a cold-“
“I’ll live.” You snap, raising your chin. Which is a mistake—the wind only bites you harder now—but you’re not going to back down from it. You’ll see this through. “I want you to tell me.”
“Tell you what?” He frowns, and winces slightly under your withering look. “I can’t say it. You know I can’t. If I tell you, then that’s on me-“
“What’s on you, the truth-“
“No, what I’ll be doing to you-“
“You’ve done a lot worse-“
“This isn’t a joke!” He shouts your name, taking a large step forward. “You could get seriously hurt, if you actually know! And if you get hurt, and I can’t save you, I’m-“ He shakes his head. “No. I’m not telling you.”
“I already fucking know-“
“Then just know, don’t make me tell you-“
“No, Clark! I know what it means that I know! I-“ You take a ragged breath, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’ve known for months, you dummy. I just- I sort of-“ You swallow, choking on the sob forming in your throat. “Never mind.”
You turn to walk away, and the world is blurring from tears in your eyes, but everything is also getting sharper at the same time. Like a camera lens, coming into a focus you hadn’t even known was off.
“No, wait-“ Clark shouts your name, grabbing the crook of your elbow. “Don’t- Shoot-“
He moves in front of you as you yank your elbow away, blocking your path off the roof.
“Move.” You mutter, and he shakes his head.
“You said you wouldn’t never mind me, baby.” He’s using the deep, commanding voice. The Superman voice. It’s cheating. “You promised. I always want to know what you’re thinking. Please.”
You shake your head, staring at his shoes. “It’s stupid-“
“No.” He grabs your chin, gently angling it up. Forcing you to meet his clear, bright, affectionate gaze. When you don’t speak—not out of spite, you’re mostly just trying not to cry—he prompts you gently. “You’ve really known for months?”
“Yeah.” You whisper. “I knew like, the first week I met you.”
His eyes widen. “How-“
“You wear your suit under your clothing, Clark.” You smile at him weakly. “You stretched. I saw. That was sort of it.”
“Oh.” He sighs, glancing down at that same suit, then back to you with a guilty expression. “Shoot.”
“Yeah. But nobody else has noticed, I promise. I asked around in a very covert way and the only other person who’s seen is Jimmy. But he said he asked you about it, and you said it’s just a weird compression shirt. Which, by the way, we need to come up with a better lie, Clark, because that one is-“
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I wanted you to tell me.”
“Oh.” Clark nods, then says your name gently. “Why were you looking at my shirt, darling?”
You flush. “Don’t- This isn’t about me-“
“Really?” He grins. “Because I kinda think most things are.”
“I- Well-“ You sigh, dropping your face into his chest. “You’re cute.”
“Cute?” You can hear the grin in his voice. “You think I’m cute?”
“And… other stuff.”
“What other-“
“We’ve fucked, Clark!” You shove away from his chest. “You know I think you’re attractive, don’t be mean-“
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” He catches you easily, pulling you back into his body. “I just like hearing what you think about me, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”
“You said I’m sorry twice.” You grumble, and he kisses the tip of your nose.
“Well, I am very sorry. And I love you. You’re the only cow I’d ever want to love.”
Your eyes widen. “You- Clark-“
“You don’t need to say it back,” he mutters your name, moving to kiss the corner of your mouth. “But I do. And I need to tell you something.”
You stare at him, and he grins at you, swiping his thumb over your lip.
“I’m Superman.”
“Oh.” You can’t stop your stupid, wide smile. “Cool.”
“It kind of is, right?” He laughs, and pulls you up into a deep, full kiss.
The long, dramatic kind of kiss. Where there might be music swelling in the background, and spotlights angling down to make the whole focus of everything just you and Clark. He’s dipping you down slightly, and your foot kicks into the air, and you’re dizzy and breathless when he finally pulls you upright. Still giving you smaller, softer kisses as you find your balance.
“Just, um-“ He sighs, still holding you tight to his chest. “Please don’t call me Clark when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You giggle, murmuring against his lips. “I won’t if we can use it for sex stuff.”
“Oh. Uh-“ He blushes, but nods, dipping down to kiss your throat. “I think we can do that. You know you might be the death of me, right?”
“No. You’re not allowed to die.” You kiss the side of his head, and he sighs.
“Yeah. But you aren’t either.” He pulls back, a deep furrow in his brow. “I’m serious. I really don’t want you to get hurt because of this-“
“I won’t.” You smile at him. “I promise.”
Someone says your name, and you blink to see Lois waving a hand in front of your face.
“Um, yeah?”
“Are you okay?” She frowns at you, scanning over your face. “You’ve been staring at the same spot for like, ten minutes. If you need, I can bring you to the hospital-“
“I don’t need a hospital.” You say quickly, looking back to your computer. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
And when you say it that time, it sounds even more like a lie than before. Lois isn’t convinced, even when you manage to talk her into just getting you some ice. You’re not convinced, because you can feel it. Even your computer doesn’t seem to be convinced, the screen so bright it feels judgmental.
But most of all, Clark isn’t convinced.
He’s not looking, when you do your routine scan to make sure nobody is watching. He’s just sitting at his desk, leg bouncing.
Which is something he does, when he’s listening.
You don’t know how you know that. Why you know that. When you learned that.
But you know it’s Clark.
That in your head, it’s Clark. It’s always been Clark.
Or it’s never been Clark, and you’ve just lost your fucking mind.
You don’t know anymore. What’s real. Why your brain has decided Clark is Superman, and why he’d ever say he loves you, or why this is happening to you.
Something is more than wrong. Something is broken. It’s that massive fucking hollow in your chest, and it’s making your heart skip in all the wrong ways. Like you lost your metronome. Lost the beat. Can’t find it again, and now you’re falling and drowning on steady ground.
Everything is so, so wrong.
And when you don’t know what’s broken, you don’t know how to put it back together.
You’re not even sure it can be put back at all.
You have to ask him.
It’s eating you alive.
Clark sits across the office, and you squint at him until his face is a little more blurred, trying to blend it into the man of the echoes. You spend hours staring at your computer screen—decidedly not doing work—listening to his voice imagining him saying things to see if they match.
Every night you watch shadows move over your ceiling at night, trying to organize every single strange moment into its place.
Every morning, you stare at the flannel and try to remember something more.
It’s a puzzle you can’t stand to finish, but need to or everything feels like it’s going to crumble apart. It’s a game you don’t want to play, but can’t bear to lose.
There’s no logical reason for it to be real. You’d remember if you’d been kissing and dating and in love with Clark. Someone else would have known, someone would have said something, Clark wouldn’t have just let you forget if you had the love that seems to run under your every memory of him.
And you’d think about it all the time if you knew Clark was Superman.
You know, because you do think about it all the time. You’ve crunched the numbers. Built Rome in a day then tore it down, outlined the case and solved it with a pipe—anxiously chewed-up pencil—in your mouth.
Clark is Superman.
He’s always vanishing randomly, in the middle of the day. He’s always oddly invested in conversations about Superman, for someone who claims not to care much for superheroes, only ever commenting that they do good work before going to back to scrolling on his computer. He’s never sick, but when he is, it’s right after Superman’s had a really bad fight. His leg bounces when he’s listening to conversations he shouldn’t be able to hear.
He has the same fucking face.
When you look at Clark, then down to the photo of Superman you pulled up on your phone, it’s the same fucking face.
But in the echoes—you’re afraid to call them memories, because that makes all of this too real—you’d told him you figured it out.
It seems like, when you lay it all out on cluttered paper, you’d been dating before you told him you knew.
You don’t know how you started dating.
You’ve stared at him, and every corner of the office, and every single item you own, trying to will the answer into your existence.
Then the building shifts, something clatters in your kitchen, and you shriek.
The paranoia hasn’t gone away.
You still don’t know where it came from in the first place.
And you have to. You have to know. This isn’t something that’s going to pass. It’s only going to build and build and get worse and worse until you’re drowning in the vacuum of it all.
One person has the answers to your questions. And he’s at his desk, tapping on his phone and glancing up at the TV every few minutes.
It shouldn’t be that hard to talk to Clark. He’s your friend, and all you have to do is ask a very carefully calculated question that doesn’t make you sound crazy, but does invite him to tell you what you need to know.
You can’t figure out what that question should be.
So you’ve resorted to eavesdropping.
You shuffle over to the copier, paper crumpling slightly in your fingers, and act as if you’ve never seen a machine before in your life. You’re not sure what you’re hoping he’ll say—maybe, oh, my coworker fell and hit her head and we’re all very worried, but she seems to be alright—but it’s a better plan than just driving yourself insane.
You’re probably still going to end up doing that. It’s the plan you committed to first.
This is mostly so you can say you tried.
And maybe, just maybe, so you can be a little closer to him. Hear his voice.
See if anything at all comes back.
“Ma.” Clark mutters into his phone, and you press a random button. “I’m coming home soon, I promise.”
There’s a pause as another voice crackles through the speaker, and Clark sighs.
“No, I’ve told you, we’re not- Uh, it’s- Ma, it’s complicated- Yes, I know love shouldn’t be, but it’s not the feeling, it’s- Um-“ His eyes flick you, and he clears your throat. “I know I love her, Ma. But- I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it, please. Yes, I’ll wait for Pa.”
The line goes quiet, and he’s still looking at you. It’s like you’re being set on fire.
You give him a weak smile. “I entered the wrong thing. To be copied.”
“Oh.” He returns the smile, and his looks so soft and real, it makes your throat ache. “They’re, uh- It’s still going?”
“Yeah, I, um- I figured other people might need some.” There’s an awkward moment of silence—he won’t stop looking at you—and you clear your throat. “Relationship problems?”
“No.” He says softy. “Nothing was ever a problem.”
You flush, looking back to the copier, and something really fucking stupid bubbles out of your throat. “Do you like cows, Clark?”
“Yeah. I love them.” He’s still fucking staring at you. “Do you?”
You shake your head. “I’ve always been more of a dog person.”
Ma Kent—with kind eyes and wrinkled hands that just finished touching pretty much everywhere on your face—laughs. “Oh, well, Clarkie was a dog boy, too, y’know. He liked to run around with the shepherds, and fly them up into the-“ Her eyes widen suddenly, and her eyes shoot to Clark. “Oh, I mean- He was just. flyin’ kites with Pa-“
“I would fly the herd dogs up into the sky.” He tells you, hand rubbing on the small of your back. “They liked being up there. Seeing all the birds. Made them happy, so I kept doing it. And it’s alright, Ma. She knows.”
“Oh. Wonderful. Did ya tell her, or did she figure it out.”
“I figured it out.” You beam, standing a little taller, and Clark sighs.
“That’s true. She did.”
“Oh, a smart girl.” Ma tilts her head at you, reaching up to cup your cheek once more. “Do you like pastries? Pa made too many, and I don’t got it in me to eat them all myself.”
You beam at her, leaning into Clark’s side.
She likes you.
The majority of the ride was spent with you working out every possible reason she might not like you, just to be ready. Clark had said you were just nervous, and she’d adore you. You’d told him that it wasn’t about you, it was about him.
You’d never think anyone was good enough for him either.
He’d blushed, and muttered that you felt pretty good for him.
You’d made a sex joke. He’d blushed more.
The goal had been to get them all out of your system before you arrived, because lewdness and vulgarity were on the list of reasons Clark’s parents might not like you. Even if Clark said they didn’t judge other people who swore, you hadn’t been about to take any chances.
But it didn’t matter.
She likes you.
And when Ma Kent starts to lead you into the kitchen, you tug on Clark’s sleeve until he leans down, allowing you to whisper in his ear.
“She likes me.”
“I know.” He chuckles, diving down to quickly plant a kiss on your lips. “Probably cause I love you.”
The paper you’d brought over is shredded on the floor, and Clark is saying your name.
It’s with more and more worry every time, and he’s dropping the phone from his ear. Trying to reach for you.
You can’t let him reach for you, because then he’ll touch you. Trigger another series of sparks in your chest. And it will keep slipping through your fingers too fast, when you still don’t know how to hold on.
But Clark’s a little faster than you think, for a guy his size.
He moves forwards, and catches you by the wrist. “Sweetheart-“
“You’re pushing it.” He murmurs in your ear, and you lean your head back on his chest. “I thought you were tired?”
“I am.” You turn your face, pressing it into his shoulder as you sit in his lap.
He holds you like he couldn’t bear to let go, even when you’re just in bed. Kisses your nose like you’re something sweet, when you’ve been all but grinding down onto his crotch for the last five minutes. But you can feel him, pressing through his sweats and rock hard. And if he just keeps dragging against your thighs and clothed core, you’re going to burst into tears. You need him inside of you.
Now.
“If you’re tired, darling, we can go to bed-“
“Clark.” You whisper, turning your head to meet clear, slightly hooded eyes. “You could cut glass with this.”
You grind down onto him again, and he hisses softly.
“Don’t do that, it’s not fair-“
“Do you want me to stop?” You pout at him in a picture of innocence, and he groans.
“You know I don’t. But-“ He sighs, watching you carefully in the dark. “You’re tired. You sleeping is more important than me, you know-“ He thrusts up, and your lips fall over with a broken moan.
Clark’s eyes widen at the reaction, and he’s quickly grabbing your face, angling it around to check for damage.
“Shoot, baby, I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to-“
“Clark.” You whine, leaning into his touch. “Please.”
His throat bobs, and his thumb drops to slowly trace your lips. “You’re tired.”
“I’m always tired.” You mumble. “I want you.”
“Well, you kind of always want me- Christ.”
You take his thumb fully into your mouth, sucking on it with a lidded, sweet and drunken gaze, and you know you’ve won before you even let your tongue flick over the pad of the finger.
He used a grown-up curse word.
You’re getting what you want.
“You want it?” He mutters your name, voice rough and low, and you hum around him. “Yeah? Can you please use your words, darling?”
You pop off of his thumb, and lean forward until your nose is bumping against his. “Can you please fuck me, Clark. Pretty please?”
He smiles, tangling his fingers in your hair. “That bad?”
You nod, and he raises his brows.
“You going to let me take care of you?”
“Yeah- Oh-“
Your words die with a happy squeak as Clark drags you forward into a deep, long kiss. You’re too lost in the haze of it—of him, lips moving heavy and demanding over yours, teeth grazing your lips—to really notice how he’s moving you, until the angle is one you can’t hold the kiss in.
“Clark- Mmm-“ Your head falls against his shoulder, as he palms your breast with a large hand. “Don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasing.” He hums, slowly guiding your legs apart with his ankles over yours. “I’m taking care of you. And you like it, don’t you? This,” he rubs your nipple between his fingers. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You whisper, and he grins.
“I know. Just feel it, darling.” He kisses the soft skin of your neck, and his hand wanders down between your thighs. “Can you feel it?”
You nod, grabbing his forearm as his massive fingers start to play between the folds of your pussy. You’re not sure when he got your clothes off. You don’t really care.
“Yeah, there you go.” He’s cooing in your ear, and your free arm tries to reach up and wrap around his neck. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re so wet, sweetheart, you want a little more?”
“Yes.” Your back arches as Clark teases over your entrance. “More. I- I need it Clark, I-“
“Can you say please?” He flicks your nipple, and you nod.
“Please. Please, Clark, god-“ You let out a loud, sinful sound as his fingers find your clit, and start to rub. Harsh and fast, back and forth while he keeps playing with your breasts, and it’s already too much.
He’s worshipful, on your neck. Kissing and sucking on your skin, all while his fingers continue to drive you insane. You’re staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes, just trying to keep up with what he’s doing to you, and Clark just keeps kissing you and touching your breasts like they’re something holy.
You writhe in his arms, and he just keeps you steadily pinned. You drive to drive your hips up or grind down onto his cock, he slaps your pussy once—lightly, just a sting that makes you gasp—and keeps going. Your arousal is dripping down, wet on your ass and inner thighs, and you fly off the edge without a warning.
Clark doesn’t stop. You can’t manage to close your legs, against his strength, and when you whine for him, you just get the same, low whisper in your ear.
“Need you soaked, darling.” He whispers, just his voice making you moan. “Need you ready for me. You know that. Just one more.”
One more turns into two more, and by the time Clark’s hand finally slows, you’re a shaking, wired mess. He lands light hits on your cunt as you float down, and drags two fingers through the mess with a satisfied groan.
“There she is.” He turns your head, offering you a gentle, loving kiss. “You ready, sweetheart?”
You nod, and Clark clears his throat.
“Can I please do the, uh-“
“Yeah.” You breathe out, trying to worm out of his arms to help.
He doesn’t let you.
Clark grins like he just won the lottery, catches you by the waist, and pushes you slowly down into the mattress. Your face presses into the sheets, your ass up in the air, and Clark runs his fingers back through your pussy. Spreads your arousal around, groaning as his forefinger dips slightly into your cunt, and you flutter around him.
“Yeah. That’s good” He crawls over you to kiss your neck. “You ready?”
You nod, trying to wiggle back into him, and he grunts.
“Yeah, alright, you’re ready. Fuck, darling, you’re so pretty.” He kisses down your spine, slowly massaging your hips and ass. “There you go. Just relax. Oh- Shit-“
Clark pushes into you, the stretch burning so fucking good, and your hands fist in the mattress.
“So good.” He groans. “Always so good and tight for me, sweetheart, you’re-“ He grunts, bottoming out. “So fucking perfect, like an angel, so fucking good. Take me so well, this pussy was made for me-“
“Clark.” You whine, clenching around him, and he ruts into you.
“Oh, God-“ He draws fully out, then slams into you, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Yeah, fuck- Doing so good for me, baby, taking my cock like a- Shit-“
Clark cuts himself off with a groan, and pulls out for a split second, flipping you onto your back.
He slams back in, crashing his mouth down over yours, and starts to fuck you at an animalistic pace. Your nails scratch at his back, your body already so sensitive from before, but it’s pointless. Clark always fucks you like he’s never going to touch you again. His cock hits every spot inside of you that lights you up, his hands wander and touch you in every way you love, because he has them all memorized.
When he hits a sensitive one, and gets a reaction, he fucks you a little harder. You moan his name, and his tongue shoves down your throat.
But Clark still drives his hips in a measured, careful way, keeping himself on a tight leash until you’re shaking and pleading around him.
Then his kisses grow sloppy.
His thrusts become uneven.
And he gives in fully when you cum with a cry of his name, your orgasm rushing through your whole body.
Clark groans, slamming home with a grunt and messy, hungry kiss.
You’re a little dazed, when you float down, but you still manage to reach up. Trace his slack, adoring features with light hands.
“The point of the doggy is that you can dirty talk, baby.” You whisper, and he sighs, dropping his face into your neck.
He still hasn’t pulled out. He hasn’t even fully softened inside of you.
He’s probably not going to for a while. Clark likes to keep himself buried in you for as long as possible, until you need to pee and he’s carrying you to the bathroom.
He also has a dirty fucking mouth, that drives you out of your mind, and he refuses to use it.
“You’re tired.” He mutters. “Felt mean when you’re tired.”
You laugh softly. “You know I like it, Clark-“
“Yeah, but I love you. And you should get the best.”
“I have the best.” You smile at him, and his lips twitch.
“Yeah. I have the best too.”
Clark says your name, voice almost as rough as it had been in your head.
But without any lust or need.
Just worry.
And the same, tangible fucking affection, as his fingers squeeze your wrist.
“I- I have to go.” You whisper, pulling your hand out of his grasp.
He lets you.
Clark could so easily hold on, but he lets you go.
But when you stumble away, and turn to run, you can feel it again.
Someone watching.
And when you glance over your shoulder, this time, Clark doesn’t look away.
He just watches you with something so fucking heavy in his eyes, mouth hanging open as his hand still reaches out.
Like he wants to catch you, but can’t.
Like he knows you’re already gone.
You can’t sleep.
If you get into bed, you look to the side and see Clark there. Lying next to you and grinning. Holding your hand on his chest, then kissing your knuckles before rolling on top of you with a laugh.
Something you’ve never had before.
That it feels like you never really had at all.
And you don’t understand.
You crawl out onto the fire escape of your apartment—curling into a little ball on the stairs and just trying to breathe in the fresh air—and you can’t fit all of it in your head. Where this all came from, why it feels so right, and why you would have ever forgotten it.
If this is something that was real, and you’re not just going insane, then you would never have let it go. You would have climbed mountains and screamed at the clouds, if it got taken away from you. If Clark got taken away from you.
But he was, and you’re just sitting on cold metal stairs.
At least, it feels like he was taken away from you. Something was taken away from you. Something that you needed and wanted has been turned into his gaping hole, and the only thing that seems to fit is Clark.
He hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t treated you any different than you can remember—although you don’t really trust your own mind anymore—and just stares at you with that worry.
As if he knows something’s wrong, but can’t fix it.
Won’t fix it.
If Clark knows it’s broken, he won’t fix it for you. And if it’s not just all in your head, you’re not sure he loved you at all.
Then, you feel it.
Something watching you.
Your head shoots up, and the streets are dark. Quiet, for the city. Not too quiet that it’s heralding certain death, but quiet.
There’s a shadow, in the alley across the street. Oddly shaped, and sort of suspended in the air.
You swallow—if you’re wrong, nobody ever has to know—and whisper, “Clark?”
Superman darts out of the alley, landing across from you on the fire escape, and smiles. Soft. Confident and nervous all at once, with his shoulders relaxed but words gentle and gaze filled with that worry.
And it’s Clark. You can look at him and know that better than anything else. You know his face, because it’s imprinted like a burn on your brain. It’s not strange to see him in the suit, because you’ve seen it a million times before.
You think you’ve seen it a million times before.
But you know you’ve seen the worry. The furrow of his brow and pressing of his lips that’s all Clark, and all for you.
Like he cares.
“I’ve told you not to call me that when I’m in the suit, sweetheart.”
You pull your knees into your chest, blinking up at him. “I- I’m-“
He mutters your name, taking a step forward, and you curl into a smaller ball.
“Why are you here?”
Clark sighs, throat bobbing. “I shouldn’t be.“
“Cl- Superman.” You correct yourself quickly, and it feels strange on your tongue. “That’s not an answer-“
“I was supposed to keep away.” He says suddenly, wincing slightly. “I really shouldn’t be here, I should’ve been avoiding you all together, but-“ He mutters your name, looking up with clear, sad eyes. “I have to know you’re okay, sweetheart. I need you to tell me you’re okay.”
You swallow, forcing your gaze to hold on his. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why do you need to know?” You whisper. “Why does it matter to you?”
His jaw presses together, and his attention darts out to the street. Mostly empty.
Something tugs on your head, and you can hear him muttering in your ears. Nothing’s ever empty enough. Safer than safe. Don’t want a mostly safe fence post, whole thing will go kaboom down.
Your lips twitch, because you remember laughing at kaboom.
Everything hurts, because you don’t really remember it at all.
“Can we go inside, please?” He points to your window, and you nod weakly.
He reaches out to help you to your feet, but pulls away at the last second, and it makes your heart burn. He opens the window, and holds it up for you to go first.
You want to reach for him, when he clambers in behind you. You can’t get yourself to move.
The moment he’s inside, it hits you like a wave.
Clark’s sitting with you at the table and holding your hand, because he refuses to let go. He’s spinning you around in the kitchen, and carrying a million plates while you giggle, worried he’s going to drop them. He’s hanging that painting on your wall and making your bed while you hug him from behind and kissing you on the couch because you couldn’t wait for the bedroom, but he won’t just take you on the floor. He’s painting your nails, because he spent hours practicing just for you. Kissing your cheek before he leaves in the morning, and looking back with a sweet, secret grin before he leaves out the window.
And it all feels so fucking real. It all fits so neatly into that space in your chest. It makes your heart beat the way it should, and the world seems to stop spinning at an off-kilter angle.
You never would have forgotten that.
But you did.
And you don’t understand.
Clark looks like he’s going to reach for you, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He should be out of place, in the bright, costumey superman outfit.
But he doesn’t.
This seems like somewhere he’s supposed to be. The walls feel closer, and it could be the shallowness of your breath, but it also might just be how they’re trying to reach for Clark. As if even they feel emptier without him.
They shouldn’t know him at all. But they do.
You do.
And it makes the emptiness hurt even more.
Clark says your name, watching you like you’re going to turn to dust before his eyes. “Please, tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m not.” You say it before you can think.
You can tell him.
You tell Clark everything.
He mutters your name, and you shake your head.
“I- I’m not okay, Clark, I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know what’s real, I don’t trust myself, I don’t trust anything, and I- I scared, Clark, please, I’m so, so scared-“
A sob chokes in your throat, and he moves in a flash. Pulls you into his chest, holding you tight and wrapping over you. Like he’s trying to shield you from every bit of harm.
You hug him back. Your arms fly up because it feels like the only thing to do, and your face presses into his chest because there’s no other place for you to be. You fit so well there.
You never would have let go.
“I don’t know what’s real.” You whisper into his body, and he stiffens slightly. “Clark, I can’t tell anymore, please, I- I don’t know what happened, I don’t know,” you shake your head, words weak and broken through the tears. “Please.”
You’re not sure what you’re begging for. All you know is that Clark is running his fingers through your hair, and holding you the same way he looked at you.
As if he’s afraid you’re going to vanish from his hands.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters your name, heavy strain in his voice. “I can’t tell you. It’s not safe.”
You sniff, clinging to him a little tighter. “But I- I think I loved you.”
There’s a long silence, and Clark’s voice is hoarse when he breaks it.
“You did.” He murmurs, and when you lean back, his eyes are shining with tears. “You really did, darling, but- You said it wouldn’t get you hurt.”
Something haunted flashes over his face, and in the very back of your head—pushed under something deeper than the emptiness, under something iron you don’t want to open and set free—you can hear it.
Your own screams.
“It got me hurt?” You blink up at him, and he gives a small, tight nod. “How-“
“Luther.” He mutters, and your blood goes cold. “He worked out I might not just be up in the arctic, all the time. He thought you knew my identity, about my family, my parents. He took you, and-“ Clark’s hands tense on your body, and a tear slides down his cheek.
“Clark-“
“You never broke.” He whispers. “You were so, so strong, but- I can’t let you get hurt again. I- I’m not worth that. Ma and Pa, they wouldn’t want it, nobody should have to go through that just because of me, and I- I found you.” He shakes his head. “I’m never living in a world where I don’t find you.”
“You’d rather not have me at all?”
Clark sighs your name, and you shake your head.
“No, I- I don’t want to forget, you can’t just-“
“It wasn’t me.” He says glumly, reaching up to trace a hand over your face. “You were so worried about me. You said you’d already talked to Terrific about it, and he knew a guy who could wipe it. Everything about us. Everything about me being Superman. Oh, geez.” He laughs weakly. “He’s not going to be happy it didn’t work.”
You drop your chin on his chest, keeping your words soft. “It didn’t. At all.”
“When-“
“The first day I got back from vacation. I remember us talking about redwood trees. You’ve always wanted to go.”
He looks like you’re shooting him. “Yeah. I have.”
“That wasn’t a vacation, was it.”
“No.” Clark bows his head, brow pressing to yours. “It wasn’t.”
There’s a moment of silence as you just breathe each other in, then Clark’s fingers curl on your hips.
“Do you want me to fix it?” He mutters. “Wipe you again?”
Your heart moves into your throat. “No. No. Clark, I- I just want you.”
He frowns, and takes a sudden, large step away. “But what if you get hurt again? It’s not- It won’t be safe-“
“I feel safe now.”
You do.
For the first time since the vacation, you feel safe.
And you’re not going to let go.
“What about when you aren’t safe?” Clark shakes his head, still backing away. “What about when I can’t find you?”
“You will, I trust you-“
“I almost didn’t-“
“But you did-“
“What if I don’t?” His voice is rising, and he’s taking another step away. “Broken hearts heal, I- I’m not God, darling, I can’t put you back together-“
“I already feel broken.” You whisper, and he freezes. “Please, Clark. Please. I- I can feel it here.” You point to the center of your chest. “So much of my life is you, you’re everywhere, I- I’m never going to be able to forget, please don’t make me-“
“I- I’d never make you-“
“So let me stay.” You plead, taking a small step forward. “I still love you, I- I’ll wait forever for you to love me again-“
“I never stopped.” He whispers. “I still love you, of course I still love you, I’ll never stop, you’re- You’re everything to me, but- If you get hurt-“
“I’ll be okay.”
“But-“
“I’m okay now.” You give him a sad smile. “With you. I- I need to remember, Clark. Please.” You take a ragged breath. “Tell me it’s real.”
Clark’s eyes flash, and he shifts on his feet for a second.
Then he’s moving.
Lunging forward, and pulling you into his arms.
Kissing you. Long and deep, like he’s never needed to breathe, and you’ve never needed to breathe either because this is better. This is warm and safe and cared for, and it’s all around you in a way you know so well. Your arm slots around his neck and you trace his face as you get lightheaded, because you could draw him in your sleep.
And the kiss sends so much of it flooding back. Clark’s warm, and he smells like amber and wood. Tastes like sweet pastries and coffee.
Feels like yours.
“It’s real.” He mutters against your lips, and his voice in your head is as clear as the rest of him.
“Clark…” You mumble, and he nods, smiling against your lips.
“You and me.” Clark whispers.
He’s not letting go either.
“It’s always been real.”
✦End note: Oh to love someone so much it physically cannot be erased. I'm very normal about memory fics, guys✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
synopsis; where the reader has a crush on Superman and Clark at the same time, unaware they are the same person.
an: I just had a lot of fun with this one honestly. There's a few silly moments here and there where i just wrote whatever tickled my fancy.
You weren't one for celebrity crushes. The idea of falling for someone you had never met had always seemed weird to you, but now, you understood. You could see the side of the girls falling over themselves for Elvis or preening for Matt Dillon. Because you were down bad for metropolises' one and only Superman.
Right now you were sat in the office grinning at your computer like a mad woman. You were watching a video of superman on YouTube, and wow...he sure was something.
"What's got you smiling like that?" Clark's voice rolls over you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
"Nothing." You slam your laptop shut, and instantly feel as if you've been caught in the act of doing something you shouldn't. But there's nothing wrong with watching a news report on your laptop. Nothing wrong with rewinding a few times just to see the dimples Superman has when he smiles. Right?
"She's got a crush." Jimmy calls from across the office, teasing.
Clark's brow furrows, "On who?" his voice deepens, almost as if he's concerned for you, though you don't know why he would be.
"I don't have a crush." You counter, but you can feel warmth creeping up your neck, heating your ears. Even if the others in the office can't see it, you know you're embarrassed.
"She has a crush on Superman, I've seen her watching videos of him constantly this week."
"Jimmy! Shut your trap!" you throw your pen in his direction, and it hits him directly on the forehead.
"Hey!" Jimmy makes an attempt at throwing the pen back but you dodge expertly, wheeling yourself out of the line of fire in your office chair.
"You have a crush on Superman?" Clark asks, and there's a small smile creeping onto his lips. He's going to make fun of you, you know it.
"It's not a crush." You defend, though you know too well that it is. "I just think that he's cool." You keep your gaze locked on the papers at your desk, hoping to defuse the conversation.
"Cool, huh?"
You don't answer him, and that in itself is all he needs to know.
-
The next day Superman saves three young kids from a three story fall, and you watch the reports fly in. Hero, savior, wonder. Words used to describe him as he brings the kids to safety on the sidewalk. The event is caught from multiple different angles, and you watch every one you can find in your researching, feeling your heart well with pride. But you don't know him, never have, so why do you feel so attached?
Clark pushes his way into the office twenty minutes later, never on time, and you look up from your laptop to smile at him. He smiles back, and his dimples flash, triggering a resemblance to something in your head.
"Morning," He greets, and the tone of his voice washes over you. He's happy today, and walks tall as he makes his way to the desk.
"Morning." You say it back almost instinctually, but you're stuck on the fact he reminds of you someone. The dimples. Superman has dimples. God, you're so down bad that you're seeing him in everything. You worry you're losing your mind the next time Clark grins at you, and again you see the similarity to the man you're obsessed with. Clark Kent looks like Superman, just a little. Not really. Who are you kidding?
You're just seeing what you want to see, which is a more attainable version of your celebrity crush. Still, you can't stop yourself when you say "I have never noticed those before." Clark turns to you, and you clarify. "Your dimples. I've never noticed them before."
It's as if you saying that short circuit's something in Clarks brain as he fumbles for a response. "I've always had them." He ends up blurting, as if you don't know that now. Then after a moment, his voice softer, like he's gone shy, "Do you not like them?"
It stuns you a little, because of course you like them. You've always had a thing for guys with dimples—superman included—though you can't say that to Clark. He's your coworker, your friend. "No, I do. I like them. They're cute." And you mean the words you say. Because Clark's dimples are cute, and so is Clark.
You're in serious trouble now. A crush on Superman, a public figure you may never meet or even see in person, is one thing. A potential crush on your coworker. Bad, Bad, BAD.
-
A week later and you wake up sweating. And not from any nightmare, no, from a very, very good dream. A dream about Clark. You are absolutely fucked.
“I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.”
Lois is trying to calm you down, but there’s nothing she can do. You are fixated on him, on your coworker Clark Kent. You'd called her after much deliberation on the topic, and after a near panic attack you decided you needed her expert council.
“I’m having dreams about him Lois! And they’re not PG rated!” You’ve got your head in your hands, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. Deep breathes, in and out. “Every time I see him, I'm gonna think…god, you know what I'll think about.”
Three days ago Clark had brushed past you in the break room, a hand on your back as he reached for the coffee machine. And you’d shivered at the touch, his touch. His hand was warm, gentle and big. And you’d be damned if you could forget about it. And he apologized profusely as if he'd felt your shiver in his heart, "sorry, i didn't mean—that was out of line, sorry."
You hadn't known how to tell him that it was perfectly alright, perhaps even more so than that, for him to touch you. In fact, you wanted him to, and that was something you hadn't felt in a long time.
"What the hell am I gonna do?" you manage to look at Lois across from you now, and you know that she has no reasonable answers for you.
"Maybe tell him how you feel?" she offers, which is a totally unreasonable answer, just as you'd suspected.
"He's my coworker! I see him every day, and if he rejects me I'll have to change my name and run off to a whole new country."
"I don't think he'd reject you." Lois says, and there's a knowing smile on her lips. But you don't quite catch her drift.
"You're right, he's too nice to turn me down. He'd go out with me out of pity, we'd date for years and then finally when we're old and dying he'll say "it's not you, it's me." and—"
"Woah, okay stop." Lois has taken a few steps forward and is crouching in front of you, her hands on your knees.
"Did it ever occur to you that he might like you back?"
"No. Well, maybe. I don't know."
Lois just smiles at you, and pulls you in for a hug. She's used to you, to your out of control thoughts, and she squeezes you tight. "It's going to be fine, it's just Clark, not the end of the world."
-
A day after that conversation, and it sure does feel like some kind of hell. Sitting across from Clark is like torture, especially when he looks at you over his glasses, smiles brightly. Those dimples. Damn him.
There's only one thing for you to do. One thing that can fix the landslide of thoughts. A dive so deep down a rabbit hole of Superman media that no man will ever compare. Yes, that's reasonable right?
You pull open your laptop, and type 'Superman' into the search bar. Videos and images of the man fill your screen, articles and interviews with him popping up in every corner. But there's a haunting presence surrounding so many of them. Interviews with Superman, reported on by Clark Kent from the daily planet. Articles about Superman's latest saves written and edited by the one and only. You peek over the top of your laptop screen, and find Clark with his head in his own work.
His curls fall effortlessly into his eyes, and you wonder how he can see anything he's reading at all. A sigh leaves your lips, blissful and dreamy, and you don't realize you do it until Clark looks up at you.
He blushes when he catches you already looking his way. "Everything okay?" he asks, and you allow the sound of his voice to envelop you for a moment. It's a voice that sounds familiar, not in the sense that you've heard Clark speak so many times before, but almost like you've heard a similar voice spoken by someone else. Someone with a cape and very similar dimples.
"Yeah," you can feel your brows pulling down into a frown as you look at him. "Yeah, everything's good." you've never been good at masking your feelings, and now must be one of those times, your expression the dead giveaway.
"What's on your mind?" Clark rolls his office chair closer to your desk, his paperwork long forgotten. You turn your laptop around to face him with an unknown confidence.
"You know Superman, right?" you watch as Clark's eyes scan over all the articles he's written about the hero in the past, before he nods with hesitation. "Yeah, sort of, I mean professionally speaking."
You don't know what comes over you then, but the words spill from you before you can properly think them over. "Can you get me in contact with him? Unprofessionally speaking?"
You're unsure if what you're implying is landing right in Clark's brain, but he seems to short circuit at the words. He readjusts his glasses, and grabs at his tie, as if to loosen it. "Yeah, uh, sure. What did you want to talk to him about?"
You turn your laptop back to face you, and begin typing something new into the search bar. "If I asked nicely, do you think he'd grab a coffee with me?"
Clark nearly chokes, or at least you think that's the case considering the strangled noise that escapes his throat. "You want to ask Superman on a date?" the words sound tight, and stressed coming from him.
"Maybe?" you glance up from your screen to note the look of shock that covers Clark from head to toe. His entire body language has changed, and it makes you shift in your seat.
"Do you think he'll turn me down?" you say at last when Clark fails to offer anything further in the way of conversation. Your question seems to tug him out of his stupor, though he's still sitting up straighter than usual, as if he's walking on thin ice that you can't see.
"I don't think anyone could turn you down."
-
Clark is reeling. He can’t quite believe it. You want to ask him on a date. Well, not him exactly. Superman. Who is also him. Fuck, this is getting complicated.
Clark had been falling for you for months now, unbeknownst to anyone in the office, and he had to admit that when he heard of your crush on Superman originally, he got a bit of a kick out of it. A confidence boost. Until of course he realised that it wasn’t really him, Clark Kent that you wanted.
It’s weird to feel jealous of yourself, but that’s exactly how Clark feels. The feeling of “what does he have that I don’t?” Is strange when you have everything said other has.
Still, Clark puts you in contact with ‘Superman’ because for him, it’s impossible to say no to you. I mean how could he? Every time you smile at him his knees go weak and that day when you told him his dimples were cute? He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.
So somehow, Clark is all done up in his ‘superman’ attire, ready to go meet you for coffee. But how does superman even have coffee? Should Clark get the same order he always does, or will you catch on if you recognise he has the same tastes?
Still, despite his doubts, he refuses to stand you up. He meets you outside the daily planet, standing tall just like he always tries to do when in this suit.
“Hey.” you greet him with such a wide smile, one that lights him up from the inside out, and he thinks in that mere second that maybe he doesn’t need the sun to heal, maybe he just needs you.
“Hello.” He extends a hand, formal despite the circumstances. “Clark has told me so much about you.”
“I was just about to say the same thing.” You answer, taking his hand to shake.
“So, shall we?” Clark gestures down the street, toward a coffee shop that he happens to appear at almost every day.
“We shall.”
-
For the most part, the date goes well. You talk about a plethora of things, and he makes jokes that have you red in the face with laughter. But there is something missing, shoes you don’t think even a superhuman man can fill.
Right now, you’re on the roof of a building taller than any tree, with the one and only Superman, looking over the city you love so much. And somewhere in that city, is a man you can’t stop thinking about. And that man, surprisingly enough, isn’t the one right beside you.
“What’s on your mind?” The voice covers you, smooth like stones washed up on the shore.
You look over at Superman, a singular curl coming loose in his hair from the wind that passes by. “You’re beautiful.” You tell him, before you can so much as think it over. “So beautiful, and kind, and funny, and a great listener.”
“Why, thank you.” He starts “I think of you the same way.” You know he means it, and that’s what makes it harder to say the next part.
“I’m going to sound like an asshole right now,” you preface, “but I know someone else, that is beautiful, and kind, funny, and a great listener. And he has these dimples that are just the cutest, and his eyes are so gentle and dreamy–“
Superman cuts you off, albeit politely. “I have a sneaky suspicion I’m being rejected right now.”
It makes you sick in your stomach to have to do it, but you nod, “I am so sorry.”
Superman is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles, soft and understanding. “It’s okay. But if you don’t mind me asking, who exactly am I being rejected for?”
You pause, and you know Superman isn’t pressuring or guilt tripling you in any way. You feel safe, and comfortable, to tell him the truth. Maybe that’s why he’s such a hero.
“Clark. Clark Kent.”
-
Clark’s heart stops in his chest. At least it feels that way when his name falls from your lips.
“Clark, like the Clark who set up this date?” The words tumble from him laced with confusion and doubt that isn’t an act. He almost says "who me?!" but manages to stop himself just in time.
“Yeah.” You heave a sigh, one that sounds heavenly and princess like. “Don’t tell, but I think I’m obsessed with him.”
That almost makes Clark break character. He can’t believe it. You like him, really like him, and he has a fucking shot after all.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s rude, and mean. We’re on a date and I’m talking about some other guy, what is wrong with me?
But Clark wants to know more, he’s begging for it internally. “No, no it’s fine. He seems like a nice guy.”
You smile subtly, staring off at the city around you. “He really is.” Clark is just about ready to pump his fist into the air.
"Why don't you ask him out?" he says instead.
You're quiet, and when you turn to face him the look in your eyes is anxious, unsure. "Because he might turn me down, and I don't know if I can handle that."
It's like a sucker punch to his gut, "I don't think anyone could turn you down." he mutters, losing himself in the look on your face. He watches, as your expression changes, shifts from one of nerves to one of confusion.
"He said the same thing." it's almost a whisper but he catches the words, despite the breeze trying to carry them away.
"Who did?" his own response is quiet too, as if you're telling each other secrets you don't want the air to hear.
"Clark. He said that exact same thing to me the day I asked you out."
-
It all comes together then as you stand there staring at Superman. His dimples, the curls in his eyes, the voice you know so well, the humor that is so familiar and kind. The touch of his hands, warm and gentle and big.
It's like a fog has lifted and you're unsure how you never saw it before. "Oh my god," you take a step back, wanting to cower in the corner from shame. You just gave the most embarrassing rom-com speech about Clark Kent, to Clark Kent. "Oh my god," you say again, your eyes scanning over every inch of the man before you. Superman. Superman. Superman. Except it's not is it? It's Clark, it's so clearly Clark that you feel stupid.
"What?" there's panic on his face, and you watch as he realizes that you know. That you see through him. "Oh," it hits him, and you watch as he also takes a step backward.
"You're Superman." you say, and it seems absolutely idiotic considering he's standing right in front of you in the red and blue suit, a giant yellow 'S' plastered on his broad chest.
He stays quiet, watching you closely. You take a step forward, and he stays utterly still, like a deer in headlights.
"You're Clark." you just needed to say it out loud. To fully convince yourself it's true. And it is. As soon as you say it, Clark—no superman—nods.
"Surprise?" he says it warily, daring for a soft and cautious smile.
-
Shortly after that conversation you beeline it out of there, promising to meet Clark later that night to really talk it over. But for now you need to sit with your thoughts, figure things out, and come to terms with the fact you just told the man you might be falling for exactly how you feel without knowing it.
To think you've had feelings for the same man twice, thinking that he was two different people? You have a type.
But you can't seem to get over completely exposing yourself and your feelings by rejecting Clark—for Clark. You pace back and forth in your apartment for an hour, maybe even two, before there's a knock at the door. You've run out of time.
"Hey," you groan as you open the door for him. He's in normal clothes now, out of the Superman suit, and he looks so unbelievably good. The white button up, the dress pants, the hair. His curls are set free, and you can almost feel your pupils dilate at the sight.
"Hey." his voice is soft, so gentle, so him. "How are you feeling?" there's genuine concern in his eyes, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he wants to reach out but refuses too.
"I'm okay, I guess. It's a lot."
He nods, and glances around your apartment, he's only been here once before for a staff party you held at your place last Christmas. He sat on the couch with you for most of the night, watching Jimmy dance offbeat to music you had coming from your tv. You think that might have been the first spark you felt for him, though you didn't know it at the time.
"So, about what happened on the roof."
As soon as he says it you want to crumble to the floor in shame. You keep yourself upright, though it's a struggle, as he continues, though he doesn't miss the way you wince at the topic of conversation.
"Did you mean what you said?"
You feel nauseous, but you nod. "Every word."
-
Clark can't help it. He tries to stop himself, but the smile grows, crawling across his face and clinging there. Stuck. "You said you were obsessed with me." he says through the smile, teasing, remembering.
He watches as you look away from him, your embarrassment endearing, sweet. "Did I say that? I don't remember saying that." the words tumble from you but he knows you're partly joking. You know just as well as he does what you said before.
He wants to laugh, wants to spin you around like a Princess, but he just takes a singular step forward, still grinning. "I distinctly remember you saying it." he adds, unable to take his eyes away from you. He's thrilled, excited, but also a little nervous. What if he made this all up in his head? What if it's just all one amazing dream?
"I'm a little obsessed with you too. For what it's worth." He adores the way you look up at him, the furrowed brows, making way for a smile of your own.
"Just a little obsessed?"
He feels the heat rising up his neck, "A completely normal amount of obsessed, I think."
That's the moment he reaches out, taking one of your hands in his own. He's hopeful that you won't pull away, be repulsed by the fact he isn't as human as you once thought he was. You stay with your hand in his own, and give his fingers a squeeze of reassurance before you speak again.
"So," you lower your head a little, "how many times did you laugh at me behind my back when I was watching videos of 'super-you' in the office?"
He pretends to think it over, look up at the ceiling contemplatively. He remembers those times, where he was almost jealous of himself. It feels so silly looking back now.
"Only once or twice." he answers, after a moment. "How many times did you almost figure out it was me?" He's been wanting to know since this afternoon, since you called him out. But there have been times in the past where he thought you already knew, where he thought maybe you were waiting for him to tell you.
"The dimples almost gave you away." You reach a hand up to touch his face, and he has to resist the urge to close his eyes in contentment. He nods, only slightly, not wanting you to move your hand away from his jaw.
"Unfortunately that is something I don't have much control over."
His eyes scan over every inch of your face, committing this moment and each of your expressions to memory. The smile lines and the way your eyelashes flutter. The purse of your lips as you try not to laugh. The lips he has a very strong urge to kiss right about now.
"I still can't get over the fact," he starts, "that you rejected me, for me." he leans in a little bit closer, as he says it, just to tease, and he revels in the roll of your eyes.
"Shut up, Kent." you say, right before you push up and close the rest of the distance between his mouth and yours. It's a not a perfect kiss, and his nose bumps with yours as he tries to hold you up to his height. He also can't stop smiling, so that doesn't help matters, and it might just be the messiest, most awkward kiss he's ever had. But it's also the best one. Because he's never felt this amount of joy before, never felt so at home in someone else's house, in someone else's hands.
So when you pull away, bashful and laughing, he brings you back in for one more.
Reblog and comment pretty pretty please!!
CLARK KENT TAGLIST: empty
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @s00buwu
boyfriend!megumi, who loves it so much whenever you're yapping about some new interest of yours to him. megumi always listens no matter what. it doesn't matter to him if he doesn't completely understand what you're ranting about— he just loves seeing the excitement and spark in your eyes when you're talking nonstop about your latest hyperfixiation.
boyfriend!megumi, who just can't help but smile seeing you. both nobara and yuji have noticed that he smiles a lot whenever he's just with you. everything about you constantly makes his heart flutter in ways he simply cannot explain.
boyfriend!megumi, (who hates to admit it), loves physical touch with you. literally anything. you could be playing with his hair, nomming him, jumping on him, hugging him, etc etc. he loves all of it. so, so much.
boyfriend!megumi, who lets you steal his oversized hoodies and tshirts. you claim that they're very comfortable (more comfortable than your current clothes), and because it has his scent. plus, a bonus for megumi is that you just look so cute waddling around in his clothes. so, he basically shares his wardrobe with you now.
boyfriend!megumi, who's occassionally clingy. especially if you were away for a really long time. he'll wrap his arms around you by the waist, refusing to let go. even if you had to get up for a sip of water, the man will literally pull you back into his arms and shower you with kisses all over.
boyfriend!megumi, who buys flowers on the most randomest days. no reason, just for funsies, and to surprise you. there was a time where he missed you so much, so he ran to your dorm late at night in pouring rain to give you a bouquet of flowers.
boyfriend!megumi, who comforts you after a bad day. he's not very good with his words, but he tries to show care through his actions instead. you sometimes complain, sometimes cry, sometimes yell. megumi listens through all of it attentively without saying much. if you're crying, megumi hugs you tightly, gently rubbing your back. he doesn't care if his shirt gets wet, that isn't the priority. what matters to him the most is you.
a/n : ive ressurected with megumi hcs !! school is beating my ass rn im gonna cry
I am a busy girl. My current business? Protesting my high school's price of 80 dollars, per student, each year. I told myself I'd go all out my senior year, and oh boy, am I doing it! Staying home from school to attend a funeral today is what I call a "God Moment," because I learned that the Librarian, who (I guess) also works with the school's financial stuff, was looking for me today about my laptop. There's no doubt that she'll be after me tomorrow, so I have to get my case ready really quick.
Let's start with the basics.
The computers administered to the students are MacBooks given to the school thanks to a grant from Apple sometime before 2013 in order to kick off a "one-to-one" program that included a class on Mobile App development using Swift, Apple's main programming language. Each year, every student, starting from the sixth grade (which can't take them home until the next year), must pay $80 for insurance. There is a slight discount for siblings, but only by a few dollars. There are payment plans, but only a few students actually need to use the insurance each year. Being a poor district, many students qualify for free and reduced lunches (including myself), which, for whatever reason, does not apply to the laptops.
Now, I understand the need for insurance. The students are essentially borrowing/renting a laptop from the school. That's fine. However, there is a suspicious air of secrecy surrounding the money and who actually owns them. It's also suspicious as to why I can't sign a sort of trust form proving I won't watch porn or search up how to build a bomb and actually use it for class. It worked last year when I was on the Edgenuity program (uuggghh...), and so I thought I'd go ahead and take it up a notch by physically taking the laptop that I own and have full and complete responsibility for, to school. My only problem? No internet. I do, however, have a mobile hotspot that only comes at a bill charge of 10 dollars a month.
With my protest, I am also saying I no longer consent to using products from companies I no longer agree with, such as Apple for their over-pricing and forced obsolescence of multiple older iOS devices, as well as shady business practices regarding anti-3rd party repairs and certain patents/trademarks (circle pizza boxes, anyone?). Another is Google, and I don't think I have to explain much about that.
Here's some of my concerns before I lay out any evidences.
The owners of the laptops aren't specified (though they are most likely the school's).
The insurance provider isn't specified
What makes this different/what separates this from free & reduced lunch?
Obviously, it's not illegal to bring my own laptop to school, so there's none of that. However, I fear that I might be expelled.
Here are some possible claims and my response:
"It's not fair to other students" Then make it so it is.
"We want to control what you're doing online" I can't look up the word "sex," even though I was looking up sex-differences. Besides, I just realized we never had a proper health class 0-0. Only middle school biology and the puberty talk. Besides, what am I gonna do with a graphics tablet? Draw porn?
"Apple gave us these computers and it's a breach of contract." Not my problem - online school is looking pretty sweet. Besides, why would Apple, a multi-million dollar company, care if I use my computer to do schoolwork? Besides, you use solely Windows OS in the Technology class, and even have Surface desktops for another class.
"We'd have to give you the wifi password" Yeah, the one with the firewall, which doesn't usually work at my house. Who do you think I am?
"You just want to feel special." No, I just don't want to pay 80 dollars.
"How would you do your work?" All of our stuff is done with the Google suite anyhow.
"You're the student, and we're the teachers/admins." I don't have a job, therefore it's my parents paying. You know our current financial situation. Technically, you work for my family and I, so I can simply change public schools FOR FREE if I have to (or I could get my GED, get my GPA score up through community College, and do as I please).
"We'll suspend/expell you." Same difference as getting fired, from my understanding. Looks bad in some areas, but I have a whole life ahead of me to make up for it. (And all because I don't want to use a school issued laptop).
Say they call me out on using Apple and Google products (I. e. Things that I OWN, watching YouTube, etc, etc). One, that means I have experience. 2, Google is unavoidable, and the other sites are typically full of far-right politics. The only one I find good is Odysee.com, and I barely use it.
"We'll suspend your Google account" don't worry. I have multiple back up emails.
"Yahoo is just as bad as Google." Last time I checked, Yahoo isn't conhorting with the CCP to develop facial recognition technologies like Google is.
"It is against school policy"
"It's like buying school supplies." I like to reuse my supplies each year. Besides, my $500 dollar laptop (given as a birthday gift by my lovely, amazing grandparents, with a bit of lawn mowing) has 360 rotation and a touchscreen, and is my sole responsibility. If I do anything bad to it, I have to either pay for repairs or get a new one. If anything, the computers you provide are a crutch to real responsibility and personal accountability. (Besides, looking at porn already has negative consequences.)
I also want to bring up West Virginia BoE v. Bennett, with the ruling that it is illegal to fine parents and suspend students for not saying the U.S. pledge, as patriotism is an opinion. Because of my opinion of Apple and the school's choice to force all students of any kind (especially those on poverty programs) to use school issued computers that they MUST pay up 76-80 dollars every year on insurance, totalling up to $480.
Also, here's the entire computer policy:
*As of this year, students have to carry backpacks as lockers have been done away with due to decreased locker usage.
So, tomorrow may be a doozy, but as long as I remain quiet and respectful, it might just go my way. ;)
I'm keeping an eye out for heat stroke in my area and I can't figure out what a full body flush would look like on dark skin since all the pictures are just fake training pictures. Anyone have video/pics of a heat stroke flush on black skin?
my first entry for @iwaasfairy 's Cherry Velvet collab! yan megumi is one of my fave yanderes ever.
You thought yourself psychic. A ten year old girl with the power to charm all of the stray cats and dogs in the neighborhood. But as you stood there, blood dripping down your arm, you could only think of how much it hurt.
Your mother dug underneath the sink cabinets for the shoddy first aid kit, directing you to sit on the toilet seat. "How many times have I told you to leave those mean old dogs alone?"
"They've never bitten me before" Was your response, hissing through your teeth―the sound tapering off into a low whine as the alcohol made contact with the open wound.
It was the large black and white one. Though the white of its fur was so dirty it looked more gray than anything else. You had nicknamed the old hound Shadow, because it seemed to have an odd habit of slinking around at night―creeping through the shadows like he was apart of them.
"All dogs can bite, honey" Your mother said, pressing her lips to your forehead in a chaste kiss.
"Not Shadow" Was your soft protest, blinking away tears. You don't know how it happened. You've known Shadow the longest. Fond of following behind him as he took you through the city. And he never once seemed to mind being accompanied by a tottering child.
Your mother regarded you with a critical eye. It was awesome, having a nurse for a mom. Even if she was always gone, you knew she was off saving peoples lives everyday. Yours too. She always helped with your booboos and scratches and even gave you a lollipop after each one. Just as the doctor would. She handed you one now, butterscotch flavored as her mind seemed to wander.
A pit of anxiety formed at the bottom of your stomach. You knew what they did to dogs who bit people. And you didn't want anything bad to happen to Shadow.
"Mom. Don't let them put him down. Please don't" You pleaded suddenly, pulling on her arm with the hand of your uninjured arm. You knew Shadow didn't mean to do it. He was just...you don't know, exactly. But he wouldn't do it to you again. You would just need to be more careful around him. Not provoke him as much.
"You could have gotten real sick" Your mother began, crossing her arms and staring at you impassively. "Rabies is deadly, baby. You know I just want to keep you safe"
"I don't have rabies" You mumbled, staring down at your feet. "I'm fine. Please don't hurt Shadow"
Your mother did not bother to deign that with a response. You could feel her looking you over for a handful of moments. And then she left, as simple as that.
You had no idea why you thought of that moment, suddenly. Perhaps it had to do with Megumi sitting at your dining room table―just barely refraining from shoving food into his mouth.
"Is it good?" You asked, sitting beside him, teasing tone of voice.
Megumi looked up, only for a second or two, before going back to his food. "You know it is"
He was a stray. Megumi, you mean. Drifting in and out of your life. The visits got more sporadic around high school, when your best friend Tsumiki, fell into her coma. It seems that just when you think Megumi won't visit anymore, he shows up to darken your doorstep. You don't really understand why he does it. He knows he's welcome anytime. Your mom practically raised you both since his guardian was rarely in the picture.
You prop your cheek onto your palm, elbow pressed against the table. You do not bother to hide the fact that you're staring. Comparing the man you see to the teen you remember seeing a year, maybe two, back. A habit you've picked up from Megumi himself, ironically―who you often catch staring back.
"What happened here?" You ask softly, gently tapping a scar on the side of his jaw. You suck your teeth. "Looks like it hurt"
Megumi regards you with a look, like he's debating on whether or not to share it with you. "Training. With Gojo"
"Training? What for?" You ask, quirking a brow. "I thought you had bodyguards"
"Do you seem them around anywhere?" Is the soft reply, eyes drifting back down to his empty plate. He looks almost forlorn, pouty. Like he can't believe he finished it all that quickly. "Is there anymore?"
"You brat" You mumble fondly, tousling his hair. "I'm older than you. You should respect me."
"I do respect you" Megumi argues, flushing. "Is there anymore?" He repeats, more impatient. It seems wherever he's been these past two years hasn't done anything for his shit manners.
"Nope. The rest is for Shigeo" You chirp.
"Shigeo?"
"My boyfriend" You inform him cheerily. Megumi doesn't say anything for a long while. Lifts those sullen deep blue eyes and stares at you. "What?"
"Nothing" Is the reply, mouth twisting into a frown. Absolutely not 'nothing'. "You should dump him. He's not good enough for you"
You make an undignified sound, pushing at him playfully. He doesn't even budge. "What! You haven't even met him yet. You can't say that"
"Say what? Who are you talking to?" Is Shigeo's reply, rounding the corner in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. His eyes seem to skip over you entirely, landing on Megumi. You've always thought he had pretty eyes. Dark brown, almost black. Really pretty in the sunlight. They widen now―staring at your stray with caution that borders on fear.
Strange.
"This is Megumi!" You chirp, planting a kiss onto his cheek. You expect him to grumble, or push you away. Megumi hates it when you 'baby him'. But he does not. If anything, he leans into it. "I told you about him, remember?"
Megumi's eyes shift up towards Shigeo. Staring. He's just as protective over you as you are of him. Except Megumi is a lot more intimidating to other people.
"You said he was a 'cute kid'" Is the muttered reply from Shigeo, and tension falls over the room.
"I am cute" Megumi says, who has never really appreciated people talking about him as if he weren't there. His arm loops around your waist and he tugs you in close. You're surprised when moments later, you feel Megumi's lips against your cheek, a smidge too close to your mouth. "Not a kid, though"
Shigeo's eyes dart down to your cheek. You can tell he isn't happy, either. What on Earth is happening right now?
A nervous laugh bubbles out of you, desperate to smooth...whatever this is, over. But before you can say anything, Megumi is beating you to it.
"Can I stay for a few days?" He asks "I want to visit Tsumiki. And your mom, too. She's been sending me passive aggressive texts lately. If I don't show up she might track me down"
You don't know why he asks. Megumi should know he's welcome anytime. You always have room for him. "The guest room is yours. Stay as long as you need."
You stand, taking Megumi's plate and your own as well to the sink. Shigeo's eyes land on you―burning like a laser. "And she wouldn't send you so many messages if you just came around more" You don't both to mask the hurt in your voice.
Seconds later, Megumi is at your side. You stand shoulder to shoulder. This is the closeness you crave. The dishes are pulled from your hands. Megumi stares. And stares. And stares. "Let's visit Tsumiki today, and your mom tomorrow. The third day will be for just us"
"I have work" You grumble.
"Don't I always pay for everything when I'm here?" Megumi asks, leveling you flat with the depth of his gaze. "Why are you bringing that up now?"
"Well, forgive me, it has been two years so my mind is little fuzzy on the details" You snap, snatching the plate back.
Megumi tsks at you, murmuring, Who's acting like a brat now? before tugging you into a hug. You try to fight it, but Megumi's strength always manages to catch you by surprise. No matter how many years you've spent roughhousing with him, and it's more clear at times like these, that you only win because he lets you.
His chin hooks over your shoulder, arms wrapping around your middle and pulling you in tight. Shigeo's still standing there, and you only realize that he is because there's a third set of footprints when there should only be two.
The thought makes you feel guilty immediately for thinking it.
"I'm sorry I wasn't here for you" Megumi whispers into your ear. "I'll explain it to you someday. Just let me stay here for three days―"
"A week." You demand, holding him just as tight. Like you'll stop breathing entirely if he lets you go. "You better stay for a whole week. Or I'll never forgive you. Ever" A lie. He knows you're lying. You'd forgiven him the moment you opened the door and saw him standing there.
There's a chuff of laughter in your ear. Megumi's hand strokes down your back. "Okay. Whatever you want"
It's a promise Megumi can't keep. You know that, you're sure he knows it too. He's never stayed for that long before. He's in for a day, two or three at most. And then he's gone again. A note on the table next to a stack of crisp bills. And things aren't like they were when you were both in high school. You remember being in such a rush to grow up, to be an adult, independent and free. What you would give, to have things be so simple again.
Shigero corners you back on your way from the bathroom. There's a towel wrapped around your body, but it does little to combat the chill from the air, even though you dried off from the shower in your bathroom.
"I don't like him" Shigeo mutters, watching as you get dressed. "I don't want you around him"
That makes you pause, glancing at his reflection from your vanity mirror. "...why?"
"Why?" Shigeo repeats, incredulous, like you're the one being unreasonable. His brows jump to his forehead, and there's a crease, right in the middle. You want to smooth it out with your thumb. "He's too close to you"
"I've known Megumi since he was eight." You tell him, like you've told him a thousand times already. Shigeo's arms cross over his chest, unimpressed. "What? You seriously want me to go in there and tell him to just go back to wherever it is he came from?"
The flat look on your boyfriends face is the obvious answer.
Disgust crawls up your throat. You would never. "...I'm all he has left. I promised Tsumiki I would take care of him. I can't just―I'm not going to just abandon him."
"Fine." Is all Shigeo says, after a long while. "Tell your mom I said hello"
You raise your brows in surprise. "You aren't coming?"
"Some of us can't just call out of work" Shigeo says pointedly and to that, you say nothing.
When Megumi was 16, Tsumiki fell into a coma. The details around that time are fuzzy―moreso because you don't want to remember more than you have to, rather than some failure of your memory itself.
You remember the exact day it happened. Where you were (home; in the kitchen), what you were doing (helping your mom with dinner), what you wore (one of Tsumiki's faded shirts―abandoned after some sleepover a few years back and shorts).
It was strange, because Megumi called. At that age, you supposed it was normal for kids to change from the sweetness of youth to some false, nonchalant thing where it was suddenly embarrassing to show emotion. Megumi never called, is the point. He texted, maybe, but he never called.
Not that it mattered much to you. You saw enough of Megumi in person for that not to matter. Nearly everyday, Tsumiki was at your house―dragging her little brother along with her. He liked to hole up in the dining room and do his homework, or sometimes he wouldn't show up at all. A lot of time, Megumi was suspended. Too much fighting. It was a miracle that he hadn't been expelled.
Once, she said the estate where they lived at with Gojo was too big, too empty. You never pried. It wasn't your place to. Clearly they had no parents and this Gojo figure popped in and out, but gave them a much nicer place to stay. Even now, you don't know the full story of how the Fushiguro siblings came to be in Gojo-san's care, but you've met the man yourself a scant number of times. He rubs you the wrong way.
"Have you visited her? Since you've been gone?" You ask, standing shoulder to shoulder with Megumi once more. There's a bouquet of store-bought flowers in your hand. There's one in Megumi's as well.
"No" Is the reply, and you figured he hadn't. His eyes won't even look down at her headstone.
It had taken months for you to even get the courage to do that.
"Couldn't go without you" He says, looking at you. His eyes are rimmed red with unshed tears. You know you aren't faring much better. "I was scared"
His words pull a sound of sympathy from you. Tsumiki had been in a coma for two years. You and Megumi visited her often. She was your best friend. She knew you better than anyone else. And suddenly she was ripped away from you. In an instant, half of you was missing.
Strange, because the day he called, the two of you had made plans to drag Megumi off to the fair. The two of you had been up the whole night, chatting about the food you would eat and how best to corner him into getting matching face paint. You don't remember if you cancelled the tickets or not. You don't remember anything, except crying a lot.
Your hand closes around his wrist. "There's nothing to be scared of Megumi. It's just Tsumiki"
His hand moves down, and curls tightly around your own. With a wince, you break free―twining your fingers together instead. Even when the two of you visited her in the hospital, Megumi rarely looked at Tsumiki. He stood off to the side, or sat in one of the chairs, and listened to you recount whatever had happened in your life. You always suspected that he visited her often on his own, but, again, you never thought it right to ask.
"I can't" He breathed quietly, defeated. His eyes looked to you, imploringly. "I can't"
Quietly, you shush him. You step closer, gathering both bouquets in a single hand. The last time you had visited Tsumiki had been a month ago. The flowers you left there had long since wilted. But there were no remains. Maybe the wind had blown away the stems. Maybe there was a groundskeeper or something, who threw them away. Hopefully, if there was one, they had spared a few minutes at her grave.
Megumi's face pushes its way into your neck. A few moments later, the tears come. Soft, at first, then hiccups and sobs. He's malleable like this, and you manage to get him on the ground. The bone of his chin digs into your shoulder almost painfully. You've got your arms around him, holding him close.
The flowers are taken from your fingers. Megumi has to pry them away, and you don't realize how tight a grip you have on the stems until he does.
"Hi, 'Miki" Megumi says, voice clogged wet with tears. "Sorry. For not visiting. And for being such a shit little brother. I should've been better"
"Hey, no, don't say that" You mumble through tears of your own. You pull back from the hug, staring at him. "I should hit you for saying something like that. Tsumiki would have done it"
A laugh. There's little mirth in it. "She would've thrown the flowers at me, instead"
You join him. There isn't much joy in your laugh either. "Yeah. She wouldn't have missed, either"
"You're going to be just fine" You tell him, much later, back at the house. Visiting Tsumiki always zaps your energy. Leaves you depleted and exhausted. Shigeo never knows how to really help, when you get like this. Never knows what to do in the random boughts of depression you get around her birthday, or the anniversary of her death. You haven't been together long enough for him to learn you that way.
Megumi's curled protectively around you. This time, you aren't alone. Down in your bones you know that Megumi just knows exactly what you need. You're all he's got left, and you know he's learned you like the back of his hand because of it.
But Megumi's exhausted too. He's sluggish, craning down slow to kiss your nose. And again on your cheek, where he kissed you this morning. His hand finds yours. "I'll be better. I promise."
Your face scrunches into one of confusion. "You don't have to be"
A hum.
"I have to. You're replacing me, apparently" He says, squeezing you tight, voice murmured and tinged with exhaustion―yet alert. Succinct and to the point, as always. Your eyes widen. His nose is cold when it prsses into your cheek. His lips hover above your mouth, blue eyes hooded, boring into you.
Panicked, you turn your face to the side. Megumi's mouth presses against the corner of your mouth instead. There's a moment of prolonged silence, heart thudding in your chest. His hand strokes up and down your back. Idly, biding his time.
You open your mouth to speak. Megumi cuts you off. His eyes rake over your face. "Is it Shigeo?"
Swallowing, you shake your head. You think of him as your little brother. You always have.
Megumi seems to see this written all over your face. "I think it is Shigeo" He says, after a minute, tucking you against his chest―despite the way you protest. He clicks his tongue at you, like you're nothing more than a fussy kitten. "Stop moving. You're tired, aren't you? Take a nap."
You are. But having to obey like this feels demeaning, in a way. You're a grown woman. And Megumi's younger than you anyway. Being coddled isn't so fun when you're on the receiving end of it. Especially when there are more pressing things you want to talk about.
"He's not good enough for you" He says, after a while. Even without looking down to check, Megumi know you aren't sleep. How many sleepless nights have you spent, just like this, tethered to each other like two ships? His lips ghost your ear. "You think I'm keeping secrets? I'm not the only one"
The sun shines overhead, though you are protected from its rays by the shade of tree. It isn't often that you go to the Gojo estate—and the sheer luxury of everything surprises you.
You've never seen a single person own so much land before. The foyer alone is bigger than most of you and your mom's apartment combined. Everything screams of generations of wealth and power. The reflections shine so brightly that you can see yourself clearly in them.
The Gojo estate makes it quite clear that you don't belong there. It creeped you out as a child and you quickly understood why Tsumiki never wanted to be there. Why she spent so many nights sleeping over at yours, instead. It scares you now. But since Tsumiki's fallen ill...it's the only place you know you can find Megumi.
He's here with you now. The grass tickles your cheek. The wind blows. And Megumi is here. Right where he should be. The place doesn't matter that much anymore—as long as he's there with you.
Even this place, a gilded cage, is nothing too scary with Megumi insisting its okay.
It's time for you to start thinking about college soon. Well, the time for that was actually at the beginning of the year. But everyone seemed to understand why school wasn't so much of a priority to you at the time.
Your hands scratch through Megumi's soft hair. He's practically boneless where his head is propped onto your stomach—phone held above his head as he taps furiously at the screen. Some sort if mobile game thats popular with the second years.
You feel like you're running out of time. Everyone had been patient in the beginning. They don't seem to understand that what you need is time. Life has moved on for them but they can't understand why it hasn't for you. It makes you feel bitter and helpless.
Tsumiki was friendly with everyone. But she'll never mean as much to you as she does to them. As a third year, you're constantly plagued with the worry that she'll never wake up. What if she wakes up and you're not there?
You wonder is Megumi thinks the same. If he does, he does an excellent job at hiding it. You can't tell who's being strong for who—you or him.
"Hey. Megumi" You say, peering down at him. He shuts off his phone and tosses it to the side and gives you all of his attention. He isn't like Tsumiki, not at all. You like that about him. "I'm thinking about college"
Megumi doesn't say anything for a while. "You're leaving?"
"Not far" You explain, laughing nervously. "I don't think I'm cut out for something like tha–"
"I think you are" He says, staring at you. You laugh nervously, pulling at the collar of your uniform shirt and look anywhere else.
When you look back, Megumi is still staring.
"But my mom is here. You're here." You pause, swallowing. "Tsumiki is here"
"Do you want me to tell you to stay?" Megumi asks, sounding annoyed. Nothing like Tsumiki at all. None of her gentleness and none of her kindness. Megumi is all sharp, jagged edges with only the occasional smooth surface.
You make an undignified noise. "I would like some emotional support! I don't know what to do"
Leaving means moving on. Staying means...just that.
"Stay or go" Megumi begins. His hand splays on your lower stomach. Your muscles twitch and buck nervously, surprisingly ticklish. "I know it won't be the last time I see you. You're like a cockroach. We're going to be together forever"
His voice is dry and flat. You can't tell if it's a good thing or a bad one.
Then you feel it ; his thumb pressing in your belly button, and his forefinger pressing lower. Too low. His forefinger drags and presses lower, considering.
What. "What are you doing?" You ask, stomach clenching at the pressure. Megumi's head turns so that his eyes are staring straight into yours. "Stop. that tickles"
"It'll fit" Is all he says, monotone as always.
"Huh?" A beat passes. "Wait a minu—did you just call me a cockroach?! You are seriously the worst, Megumi! I'm older than you. Show some respect!"
A sigh. A moment later his hand is gone completely.
"You're so weird" He says, with a huff, rolling his eyes.
"Me?" You screech, loudly, pinching the side of his neck. He makes a soft, pained noise. Good, you think. That should teach him a thing or two.
The knife cracks down on the ginger root, splitting it. Too much force used, if the way the cutting board shifts against the counters is any clue on the matter. The smell wafts up into your nose, along with the spices you've put aside.
You think I'm keeping secrets? Yes, of course he is. Again, you cut through the ginger. There's plenty Megumi isn't telling you. And you're only human. Of course you're curious about them. But he wouldn't like it if you were to going spying around behind his back. So you don't.
Whatever it is Megumi and Tsumiki went through before you met them is traumatic enough for neither of them to mention it. The closer you grew to her, the more you realized that a majority of her personality was just...fabricated. She was sweet around everyone else, cordial, kind. Easy for nearly every boy in your grade to have a crush on.
But around you―she's different. She pushes you out of the way to get first dibs on the remote. Steals sips of your juice boxes and deems it the "Best Friend Tax". Cries into your shoulder when she's screamed herself awake from nightmares. Holds your hand and tells you that you're the only real family she has, besides her sour faced brother.
Flinches sometimes, hiding close behind you, whenever someone whispers tales of the Yakuza. Some hitting too close to home, you suspected. You had asked your mom about it, once.
"Some things, baby, leave a mark on us, for a long time. Just don't bring it up if she looks uncomfortable" She told you, kissing your cheek.
Your mom started inviting the Fushiguros over a lot more after that.
"Woah!" Shigeo chuckles, crossing into the kitchen. You perk to attention at the sound of his voice. "What did I do this time?"
Your hand holding the knife pauses. "What?" You think I'm keeping secrets? I'm not the only one.
"Sweetheart" He says, swooping in and kissing your cheek. Again, on your mouth. "There's nothing left of that ginger besides a paste. Did I forget to take the trash out again?"
You stare down at the cutting board, slightly confused. But Shigeo is right. The ginger you had been dicing is nothing more than a wet mush. Your thoughts had just...ran away with you.
The day after Megumi tried to kiss you, he took you out shopping. His way of apologizing, you think. You both visited a cute cafe you mentioned wanting to try but neither you nor Shigeo ever having the time. The barista at the counter assumed you and Megumi were a couple. You tried to say otherwise, but Megumi had just kissed the side of your head and thanked her.
Neither of you had brought up what happened the day before. You, because you're terrified of where this is heading and unsure of how to stop it. And Megumi, not because he's afraid, but because you know he's allowing you the time to process. He'll force you to face whatever this is, and when he does―you know you won't have time to run or stall.
You had forgotten about it all, nearly. Until you stepped back into the apartment to Shigeo sitting on the couch, watching reruns of his favorite show. The next morning, he was gone. A small note with his new number on it, and that was all.
I'm not the only one. The words repeat in your head, over and over again. What could Shigeo possibly be hiding from you?
"Are you cheating on me?" You ask, voice solemn and serious, staring down at your chopped vegetables. You don't think its that. But.
"No" Shigeo says, immediately. Not a lie, then. "Are you?"
A look of confusion befalls you. "Why would I cheat on you?"
A noncommittal hum. He takes a seat at the dining room table and observes you as you work.
"Usually if someone asks about something as serious as cheating, it's because they're guilty" Shigeo says, carefully, eying you. You realize, with a dawning sense of horror, that is is Shigeo who doesn't believe you.
"I'm not" You repeat, stressed. Your voice sounds high and whittled. This is about Megumi, you know it is. Why is he turning this on you, all of a sudden? " I'm not. Is there...anything else?"
Shigeo makes a soft noise. Elaborate.
"Is there anything else that you're keeping from me?" You ask, looking at him from over the stove now.
There's a pregnant pause. His eyes sweep left, and then right. Subtle. He isn't even aware that he's doing it. "No. There's not."
He's lying.
He lied to you. You wonder if he knows that you know. Maybe. He sits there, silent, eyes suddenly interested into the magnets you keep on the fridge.
Dinner is a quiet, awkward, affair. Both of you poke at your food. Conversation is brief, short, stilted. You wish Megumi was there. His silence, at least, is a comfort to you. Something you're used to. You aren't used to this at all.
You met Shigeo at the grocery store. A year and a half ago.
It was in the laundry aisle. He stood there, in front of the laundry detergents―taking entirely too long to debate between them when really he should have just grabbed one and went on about his business. You huffed, annoyed, and had coughed under your breath. Trying to get him to hurry it up.
He had turned around to apologize, and both of you just stared at one another. He asked you out right there. And the rest was history, as they say. In all of the time that you've known Shigeo, he's never really been a good liar. He always...looks around. As if he's waiting for someone else to interrupt. Or for the conversation to change. And when he realizes that no one's coming, he lies.
You and Shigeo are both honest people. You don't make a habit of lying. And you don't think he does either. A soft groan passes your lips. Actually―you aren't sure of anything anymore. It's been a month. There's been no sign of Megumi. You haven't texted him and it's like the universe is making you suffer greatly for it.
The house is tense and rolling with energy. Words unsaid. Fights over petty things the two of you had never bothered to fight about before.
Everything is a thinly-veiled insult now. Shigeo constantly alludes to you cheating. With Megumi. Everything is about Megumi now. He watches you closely, like he doesn't trust you to go to the bathroom on your own or else you'll cheat on him again. You haven't cheated at all. Sometimes, you want to tell him what happened that day. When he almost kissed you. You want to tell him that you turned Megumi down, that you refused. For him.
But you don't. You're afraid that if you do, it'll give your boyfriend another reason not to trust you. That the insults and passive aggressive behavior will get worse. And if he knows that what Megumi feels towards you is some misplaced feelings, he'll use it as justification for his actions.
You can't take much more of this. It's gotten to the point where you dawdle coming home from work, as you are now. And you've never been one to do that. Always among the first to clock out when your shift at the library ends. But, lately, you don't like being there. A place that you once considered your safe haven feels the complete opposite. You suppose, no one really tells you about that, once you move in with someone. There's really nowhere to go if the two of you start fighting.
Everything becomes barbed, sharp, dangerous. Everything becomes a shouting match and ends with you crying in the shower because you're just so tired.
You pause outside of your front door, arms full with two large paper bags. You don't want to go in. But you've ran off to the grocery store every day this week. If you do it again, Shigeo will have something to say about it. Sighing, your head thunks against the door.
You nearly trip and fall, when the door swings right open. The door you swore you locked before you left.
Megumi is sitting on your couch. That's the first thing you notice. He's wearing a suit. The last time you remember Megumi wearing a suit was at Tsumiki's funeral. The suit jacket is tossed over the couch, like he's been here a while.
Megumi is not the only one in your living room.
"Sh―Shigeo?" Your voice is a quiet wobble, eyes skittering over your boyfriend's limp form. His face is a smattering of blood and bruises and his right eye is swollen. Megumi's hands are no stranger to violence, but there isn't a drop of blood on them.
Your entire living room, and parts of the kitchen too, are just completely trashed. The coffee table is turned over, shards of glass all over the floor. Books and magazines and a flurry of destruction everywhere.
There are three men present that you don't recognize. Two stand next to Shigeo, on both sides of him. The third next to the couch, on the far end.
Your boyfriend's head lifts slightly, to the sound of your voice. A beat too late. You're just relieved to see that he's alive. The bags in your arms drop to the ground and you rush over to him, breathing heavy.
"What...what did you do to him?" You ask, wheeling around to face Megumi. Your hand lands on Shigeo's shoulder. He moves, but only to flinch backwards. There are tears springing in your eyes. You reach up a hand to brush them away.
"You told me she would come home much later" Is Megumi's murmured reply, uttered not towards you, but to your boyfriend. "If you'll lie about something as minor as that, Hayashi Takeo , you'll lie about anything―won't you? Your name, your age, your occupation"
"I-I, swear" Your boyfriend slurs. Halfway through that he's starts coughing up blood. It spittles out of his mouth like a dog with rabies, clinging to his teeth and gums. "I'm not―I'm not lying. It's there. All of it"
"...Shigeo?" He doesn't answer. Fearfully, you fold your hands over your heart. When you take a step back, your foot crunches glass beneath it. You look towards the only person who you know will give you answers. "Megumi?"
His eyes snap towards you immediately. They are hard, and impassive and very angry. In all of the years you have known him, Megumi has never truly been angry with you. Miffed, annoyed. But never angry. Slowly, his eyes soften.
"I didn't want to do this here" Megumi says, voice gentle and quiet like it used to be, years ago, when he found you crying your eyes out on some random bench at the hospital. His eyes flicker down to his watch. "Let's go get some ice cream"
Dumbly, you shake your head. You step closer to Shigeo, hands bunching around the bloodied fabric of his work shirt. His body is warm with heat. "No. Y-you're gonna kill him"
"Did I tell them to kill you, Hayashi?" Megumi asks, glancing at your boyfriend with a look so cold its scathingly hot in its fury.
Shi―Takeo, shakes his head. His hair falls into his eyes, obscuring them from your view.
Megumi hums, satisfied. There's a sharp glint in his eye. You've never been more afraid in your life. "What did I tell them to do to you?"
"To teach―to teach me a lesson"
"Why?" Your heart pounds in your chest. You're crying, you think. Making soft, scared, hiccuping little noises.
"Cause I st-stole from you" Takeo slurs.
"How much?" Megumi asks, voice thin and hard. Takeo doesn't say anything. He gestures towards the man on the right, just a lift of his eyebrows and you turn away just as your boyfriend is struck across the face. You squeeze your eyes shut at the way his breath leaves him in short, gasps. The sound of his spit and blood spilling across the floor and the way he sounds when he's struck―a grunt tumbling into a groan. "How. Much?"
"A mi...million―yen" Is the response, and your heart sinks to your stomach. You gasp, taking a step back, tripping over the leg of what must have once been your coffee table. Just as you're about to topple over and fall, a hand latches onto your upper arm, keeping you upright. It's one of the men you don't recognize. No, it's one of Megumi's...lackeys? Henchmen.
One look from your childhood best friend has the hand releasing from your upper arm. You can feel him freeze up behind you, as if he's afraid.
Megumi stands, and grabs his suit jacket from the couch. "Let's go for that ice-cream now, okay?"
He isn't asking. You spare one last look at Takeo, before a click of his tongue has you scurrying forwards. Megumi's hand slithers down to twine your fingers together. He squeezes. You know you have to squeeze back. So you do. His hand is cold. The smell of his soap wafts into your nose. Even now, your body tilts into his direction, staying close.
Even now―you're comforted by his presence.
The next time Tsumiki asks you for a favor, you're going to actually listen to her before you agree. She took advantage of your daydreaming and pushed you into a stressful situation on purpose!
You're going to kill her. "Uhm. Hello. T-Tsumiki sent me. We're friends from school. I have Megumi's homework?"
You had known that Tsumiki was rich. Everyone did. A few of your classmates had even claimed to have seen her house once or twice. But their accounts never lined up, so you just assumed they were rumors.
"Let her in" Says the bodyguard on the right. They wore black suits, even in the sun, and didn't seem to sweat at all. Your mind still spins over the sheer notion that Tsumiki's house has bodyguards. Not one, not two. But a lot of them, stationed around the property. Even though there's a fancy gate which would keep out even the most determined trespassers. "I recognize this one"
Your face morphs into one of confusion. You've never seen this man a day in your life. But you don't want to say anything. The men step aside. Another bodyguard comes, seemingly from thin air, and begins to march you towards the main building.
There are a lot of other, smaller buildings, littered about. Everything is done in the traditional Japanese style. It looks like something from a history book. You wonder just how old this place is. Everyone you've seen as you pass by is dressed impeccably, which makes you feel underdressed.
"The young master is inside" Says the man suddenly, pointing towards a set of doors. Before you can even open your mouth to thank him for the assistance, he's turning around and leaving.
Megumi is sitting on one of the couches, watching TV. He doesn't turn when the door opens.
You skip over to him, merry grin on your face, peering over the back of the couch. Then think better of it at the last second and stand straight again. This isn't your house, maybe there's a rule about hanging on the back of couches that you don't know about. "Hi! Tsumiki made me bring you all of the work you missed from your classes because you got suspended―"
Oh. He looks terrible.
"Fighting again?" You ask quietly, words dying in your throat whenever he turns to face you. There's a smattering of bruises on his face, a cut that had probably been bleeding, before. It looks like it hurts. "Megumi―I thought you said you would stop fighti―"
"They started it" Megumi bites out, eyeing you warily when you sit down beside him on the couch.
"What did they say this time?" You ask with a roll of your eyes. Megumi isn't exactly known for his everlasting patience and serenity. Even though you've been friends with Tsumiki (and Megumi because the two of them are a package deal) for years, you still mess up yourself from time to time. "Sorry, but teasing you for being rich isn't exactly a good enough excuse to―"
"They were talking shit about Tsumiki" He says, and your mouth clamps shut.
"Well...I can't exactly blame you for that now" You say sheepishly, with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. "Good job for defending your sister!"
"What happened to 'talking through my problems'?" Your eyebrow twitches. Seriously, how can a mere middle-schooler have so much attitude. You were never like him at your age!
"Anyone who talks badly about Tsumiki deserves it" You tell him, putting your hands onto your knees. "Besides. She's your family. You two only have each other. You protect her and she protects you. Just like me and mom"
No one talks badly about your mom. But if she were, you'd like to think you were strong enough to beat them all up.
Megumi is silent for a minute. "I don't just have Tsumiki. Anymore"
Tears well up in your eyes. You know that the second one falls, Megumi's going to be out of there. He's allergic to showing affection, you think. So you sniffle instead. Megumi groans and predictably begins moving away.
"Well!" You snap at him, faux annoyed. "It's just my allergies! I'm allergic to uhm...to uhm...to dust! You should fire your housekeeper. What if I die on the spot from the severity?"
"You can't die from dust allergies" Megumi says drily "What are they even teaching you?"
"You can so too!" You protest, uncaring of how childish you sound. To be honest, you aren't even sure if that's possible. But no way are you letting him think that he's right. A series of exaggerated coughs and fake sneezes follow, hammering in your point. "My mom's a nurse. So I'm pretty sure I know more than you, you brat!"
"I take it back" Megumi grouses "You are so annoying. No―get off of me, I don't want a hug"
"Why are you sitting so far away?" Megumi asks, eyeing you carefully. You sit on the far end of the park bench, a loose cardigan around your shoulders to combat the chill. "I'm not going to hurt you"
"You hurt Shigeo" You say, staring down into your ice cream.
Megumi makes a disgruntled sound. "Takeo. The man I hurt was Takeo. He's been lying to you your entire relationship and you're still defending him?"
The words make you flinch. "You've been lying to me too...why―I don't understand"
Why Megumi would do something like that. He isn't the nicest guy around, and he stopped getting into fights when he transitioned into highschool so why...why is he―
"Gojo. The man who took Tsumiki and I in, he's the head of the Gojo clan, which is currently the most powerful family in the Yakuza" He says. Casually. Like he's telling you about the weather and not that he's affiliated with the-.
"The Yakuza?!" You screech loudly, but one sharp look from him has you quieting your tone. "Megumi, those guys are seriously bad news. Whatever it is he's offering you isn't good enough! You have to...quit or something!"
A snort. "You don't just up and quit working that kind of life. My real father was apart of the Yakuza too. A different syndicate though, and a real problem for Gojo. But for some reason, he didn't kill us after he murdered my dad. He took us in"
For lack of nothing better to do, you shovel a spoonful of ice-cream into your mouth.
"Either way, my fate was sealed since birth" Megumi continued. "I was going to be in the Yakuza. Just...didn't think I'd be doing it as Gojo's second. He offered me a choice. Said that once I was in, it would be impossible to get out. Tsumiki wanted no part in it. Neither did I but then..."
This part is hard for him to say. Without thinking, you slide down the bench until you're pressed shoulder to shoulder. Even though you're mad at him, you can't abandon him. Just like you've always been. Megumi takes a deep breath. "And then I found out that someone from a rival family had Tsumiki poisoned"
"Oh. The c-coma?" You ask, quietly, rhetoirical. Tsumiki had been in a coma for two years before she died. The pieces begin to fall together. You glance over at Megumi, whose face is blank and impassive. Forcefully so. Even now, he's trying to be strong for you.
The whole time then. It's always been like that. You thought you were Megumi's source of comfort, his strength. But he was yours.
It made sense now, why Megumi hardly looked at his sister, when the two of you visited her in the hospital. His personality growing more reserved. Distant. Why his visits grew more sparse as time moved on until you didn't see him for two whole years. He must have felt so alone.
"I wanted them all dead" He said suddenly, voice so dark and full of hatred that you flinch away. "But it wasn't enough for Gojo to do it. For some faceless lackey to do it. I had to do it. Because I failed to keep her safe. I was supposed to protect her and I fucked up and now she's dead"
You two only have each other Your words haunt you now. You can't help but feel as if you're the basis for the guilt that Megumi feels. You protect her and she protects you.
There's a sudden cold press against your lips. Megumi's kissed you.
"So imagine my surprise" Megumi says, lowly, hand pulling you in by the shoulder "That the last guy I have to kill in order to fully put my sister to rest is. Playing. Fucking. House. With. My. Wife" Each word is broken up with another kiss.
Your dizzy when he finally pulls away. You push lightly at Megumi's shoulders. He doesn't budge. His hand lands between your spread thighs on the bench, pale like the moon. His icy lips are nipping at the side of your neck now. Heat pools in your lower stomach.
"Me-Megumi...we're not, we're not married" You manage to gasp out, thighs clamping shut. Your stomach curls with disgust. "You mean...the whole time Shi―Takeo and I were dating he had...he was one of the ones who―"
You think you're going to be sick. Tears prick in the corner of your eyes and you hold on tightly to the sleeve of Megumi's suit jacket.
He makes a disgruntled sound, and mutter something like don't talk about him while I'm trying to kiss you but eventually works around to continuing.
"It took me a while to track him down. He was a rat, working for a rival family who had also been working for us. An informant. He knew where Tsumiki would be that day. He had been watching her and you too, for a long time. I never even fucking noticed" He says, spreading your legs again. "But before I had the chance to kill him, he fled―along with 1 million yen"
Your stomach swoops. But it's hard to focus on the dread you feel when Megumi has his hand down your skirt, toying with the waistband of your panties and kissing at the sensitive part of your neck he discovered earlier.
"Megu-Megumi, stop" You mutter, panicked, looking around the park for any voyeurs. "We're in a public place―someone could...Megumi, someone could see us, stop"
"There's no one around" Is the reply, cold fingers pressing against your skin. "Did you fuck that bastard? How many times?"
Despite the cold, you can feel the way your face begins to flush. "I'm n-not telling you that!" You exclaim hotly. As close as you are, even some things must be kept private. And your sex life is one of those things.
"So you did" Megumi says drily "How good was he? Not better than me"
"We never even!" You protest "We've never had sex Megumi―so how would you know?"
The wrong thing to say, apparently. Megumi wrenches away from you like you've just insulted Tsumiki herself, eyeing you like a predator would prey. In one quick movement, he's pulling you to your feet, snatching the ice-cream cup out of your hands and into the trash before setting a fast pace over to the car.
The car is a lot warmer than the chill air outside. Megumi pushes you down in the backseat, clambering on top of you. You try to scoot away, but one hand on your hip is strong enough to keep you in place.
Megumi's mouth presses to yours, hand rubbing up and down your stomach idly as he devours you. Kissing Megumi is different than any of the other guys you've kissed before. He kisses you like he's angry, frustrated―but then softens up, hand cupping your cheek and thumb stroking your jaw. Liking kissing you is enough to quell whatever fire and darkness swirls inside of him. He moves back, enough to strip out of his suit jacket, flinging it into the front seat.
"The windows are tinted" He says, as if that makes any difference to you. "Spread your legs"
Your eyes blow wide. "I'm not...I'm not doing that"
"Why not?"
"B-because!" You exclaim, trying to shut your legs again. And again, it's pointless to try. Honestly, the nerve of him! "I don't like you...like that. Megumi, we're practically siblings!"
"I don't think siblings kiss" Megumi says casually, flipping up your skirt instead. You want to point out that he kissed you. You just...reciprocated it for a minute. "And if you knew how much time I spent jerking off to you, I don't think you would believe we were 'practically siblings', either"
"You―you were―?" You stammer, unable to even get the words out
"My first wet dream was about you too" Megumi whispers, kissing you on your forehead. He sounds fond. "I still remember it. You were moaning so cutely when I fucked you. And god, you were a little spider monkey back then, remember? Kept clinging to me in the dream just like that. I wonder if you'll make the same sounds"
His hand splays across your clothed pussy. You can't think, can't even breathe, other than the fact that Megumi is about to fuck you in the backseat of his fancy car of all places and it feels like your entire world is falling apart.
You don't want this. You're sure you don't. But when Megumi's hands reverently pull down your panties (ignoring your protests when he tucks them into his back pocket), you can feel how wet you are. The brush of air against it doesn't help.
"Did that bastard ever get you this wet?" Megumi asks, tips of his fingers spreading your folds and gently trailing through your slick to gently pet around your hole. Your face burns with shame at the way your pussy clenches, knee jerking up involuntarily. His voice is far away and too close, all at the same time. "Did he?" He repeats, impatient.
"No" You wobble pathetically, watching as he shifts even closer. Megumi's hard cock grinds against your ass, heavy and smearing something hot and wet against your ass, even with the layers of his pants and underwear between you.
"I didn't think he did" Megumi says, before sliding two fingers into your cunt. The insides of your thighs spasm like pulled strings, a choked gasp leaving your lips as he pushes his fingers up until the last knuckle. "That bastard couldn't even fuck you properly"
His fingers pull back out of you, and then press back in. Slowly, at first, like he's mapping you out. The rest of his fingers smack against your ass with a soft slip and squelch. There's a determined knot in his brow before he slides them in―and starts finger-fucking you so hard you can't breathe.
"Meg―Megumi!" You squeal, though he shows no sign at all of slowing down. No, no, he speeds up―scissoring his fingers inside of you. A third finger spears into your cunt, thumb rubbing slow circles at your hooded clit. Your stomach curls and rolls, breathing hiccuping into sharp gasps and whimpers.
"He murdered my sister" Megumi growls lowly, fucking his fingers into your pussy like it's done something against him personally. You can't do anything but hold onto his inner wrist and take it. "Steals my fucking money, runs off with my girl and he can't even fuck you properly. How long were you two together? It couldn't have been worth it. You should've known you were mine instead of cozying up with that shithead"
Your insides churn rapidly. Each drag and push is like liquid fire, hitting your body in so many spots at once. You brace yourself against the cool leather seats of the car, heating up with how hot you feel, getting hotter still―chest heaving and heaving for air, toes curling in your socks.
When Megumi stops it pierces you like a physical pain. One moment you're nearly there, whimpering and pleading and the next―nothing. He's breathing hard, staring at the sticky mess between your thighs before those dark eyes slowly trail up to your body.
You cover your face with your hands, desperate for relief. Any relief. Why did he stop? This is wrong, you shouldn't be doing this at all. Much less feeling good from it. What would Tsumiki think? You don't want to know. All you know is that you were so close. You were right there and your pussy hurts, throbbing and you're so ashamed of the gushes of slick that seep out of you.
"I'm going to kill him" Megumi says. His hand cups your pussy, warm and solid. Your hips buck against it―chasing what he had once given you. "Very fucking slowly and very fucking painfully. You can't stop me from doing it. Do you understand?"
His other hand comes up to pull yours away, staring into your eyes. A part of you, despite everything, doesn't want Takeo to die. It makes shame curl in your gut. He was apart of the reason Tsumiki was in that coma in the first place. Those two years were the worst of your life. He was apart of the reason why she died.
But you think of his face in the morning, mussed from sleep. Whiny and always wanting to cuddle. It couldn't have all been fake, could it? At some point, Shigeo and Takeo had to have become one and the same. You loved that part of him.
Megumi calls your name. Your eyes flit to his face immediately. "Do you understand?" He repeats.
"I...I understand" You whisper quietly. Maybe the real reason you don't want Takeo to die is because Megumi will inevitably be the one to kill him. You've known Megumi since he was eight. He has always been a fighter, but he would never have it in him to kill someone.
If that's the Megumi you know, then who is this in front of you?
Hands settle on your knees. Your face flushes with embarrassment as you're suddenly spread open as far as you're able to in a car. You try and cover yourself with a squeak, but the movement of your hips as you move does nothing but reveal more of yourself to Megumi's ravenous gaze anyway.
"I'm not using a condom" Megumi states, flicking open the button on his pressed black slacks.
Your face pales.
Fingers skirt along your side. "We're going to be married anyway" he continues, shucking out of the pants and underwear. You try to dart your eyes away from looking at his cock―but you're a beat too late and you've already seen it. "Don't see why I have to wear one when you're going to be pregnant eventually"
He's big. Longer than Takeo, flush a pretty shade of red. Curving just slightly and dribbling precum. You don't know which one scares you more : Megumi's words or his cock.
He shuffles forward slightly, hooking a hand under you and pulling you forwards. The second, definitely the second.
Your legs snap close. Megumi wrenches them open again.
"Th―that's not going to fit." You say fearfully, whining as you try to break free of the sudden hold he has on you―squirming and bucking. You move so much that Megumi growls at you and then pins your hips down to the seats so that you can't move anything at all.
"It'll fit" Megumi mutters as a pitiful reassurance, bracketing your thighs overtop his knees. His brow knits, face pulling, and it's the most focused you've ever seen him. "I checked. Don't worry"
What's that supposed to mean? But before you can open your mouth to ask, he's cutting through your confusion with a simple, "Relax for me" and then proceeds not to miss a beat as he pushes inside.
Air rushes out of you in a sudden gust of adrenaline, back bowing off the seats with a high-pitched whine as Megumi spears himself inside your cunt. It's like a punch to the gut, flesh aching as you feel yourself stretch to properly swallow the first push. There's a loud grunt below you and then Megumi rocks gently back out, muttering a few choice words as he pushes himself in, all the way to the hilt.
A pair of hands settle across your waist. Megumi's fingers are long and pale against your dark skin, nails neatly trimmed with not a speck of dirt underneath.
"Told you it would fit" He says lowly, words melting like warm chocolate. His eyes flit down your body. "Look" He demands.
You do, moaning softly, staring down at the sight of your weeping pussy stretched around his girthy cock.
Megumi begins leilursely thrusting inside of you, cock bullying further into your cunt, eyes trained down at the place where your bodies are joined together. You've fallen flat on your back, gasping and choking for air. Each slow thrust is enough to make you feel it, impossible to ignore. This isn't your boyfriend, hands too big, grunts and groans too low-pitched to be Shigeo. Takeo.
This is your sour-faced Megumi. Megumi, who likes to pull out until the tip is just barely inside of you. This is Megumi, who likes to slowly push back in, muttering soft praises of how good you feel, how long he's been waiting for this, into your clammy skin.
There's the faintest press of lips to your forehead. Your eyes snap open, teary and wet. He's leaning over you now, cock nestled only deeper for it. His hand braces itself on your shoulder before sliding back down to your waist.
"Wanted our first time to be in my bed" He confesses, gently, hips slowly picking up the pace. His eyes are lidded with lust, skin ruddy and slightly red as your breaths sync into one rhythmic beat. "Not the one in the shitty Gojo estate―the one in your apartment. The one you've always had just for me"
His voice is low and reverent before a sweet kissed is placed onto your lips. "Going to fuck you now" He says, a warning, before he does just that. Your moans punch out of your throat, tapering off into high-pitched keens and whines. Your back arches but with Megumi's hands pinning you down to the seats there's nowhere for you to escape to.
You keen, gasping at the sudden shock sizzling down your spine―entirely too sharp and sudden and forceful to be wholly pleasurable, but achieving that same effect. Yet you clamp and clench around Megumi's cock anyway, tears streaming down your cheeks. One hand claws at the leather and the other grips tightly around Megumi's thumb.
And your orgasam is a sudden burst of pleasure that has your head tipping to the side with a noiseless scream as your cunt pulsates around his cock. "That's it, cum on my cock" Megumi grunts lowly, fucking you through it, cunt hot and slippery around him. Gripping him tightly, but milking at him like you already know whats coming.
Your head thuds against the seats lightly, body going nerveless and weightless in its entirety as Megumi's hips continue to snap into your cunt―chasing his own impending orgasam. Then he's pulling out, just so until the tip is pressing against your clit. His head collides with your shoulder, panting into the space between your neck and shoulder.
Megumi jerks at his cock in quick harsh strokes before painting your pussy in thick ropes of cum. Time stretches out, seconds, minutes, half an hour. You can't tell. You're floating somewhere faraway―only coming back to yourself when Megumi shifts your body upwards, cradling you to his chest.
You blink, slowly.
There a kiss planted on the top of your head. Megumi's voice is hoarse when he speaks. "Was I too rough?"
You swallow. Thinking is still pretty hard right now. "Rougher than I'm used to but...but it felt good"
"That's good" He says, and kisses the top of your head again. "I would never want to hurt you"
You are hurting me you want to say. The words don't come. Even if you weren't' half fucked out of your brain you don't think you could say them. Not to him. You're all Megumi's got. You won't abandon him. Not even for this. Just not in the way you think.
"I didn't know that was the kind of girl you went for" Gojo says, with a smirk on his face that Megumi wants to scratch off. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his navy colored pants, white hair tickling his neck.
Megumi scowls down at the pavement. Gojo falls into line behind him. The black sudan is just up ahead. "What are you talking about?"
"Is that where you've been going after school?" Is the question he's asked in return. "Tsumiki's best friends house?"
Why is Gojo asking a question he already knows the answer to? Gojo is so annoying. "Yes."
"Well I guess you are at that age now..." Says the man, whistling some odd tune. "I just didn't expect you to become such a pervert so quickly"
"Shut up" Megumi barks, clambering into the backseat of the car, face hot. Gojo slides in beside him. He clicks his tongue at the driver and soon, they're back on the road. "I'm not...you're being weird"
"Her skirt rode up when she flopped next to you on the couch" Megumi freezes. "You kept staring at her thighs."
"I wasn't" He lies, jerking his head towards the car window.
"I wonder if her mother notices that you stare at her like that" Hums the man, crossing one leg over the other. There's no use trying to defend himself. He's mostly sure that Gojo's only doing this to pull a reaction out of him. And he's fallen for that trick one time too many.
It's Gojo, who gives in first. "Don't look so down, Megumi. She'll be yours, don't worry" Megumi makes a grunting noise as his hair is ruffled. "Haven't you heard? Good things come to those who wait"
megumi fushiguro never thought he was the type of guy to fall for a girl like you- let alone someone at the school.
yet there he was, sitting beside you in the courtyard, your fingers lazily intertwined with his as the sunset cast a golden tone over your skin. he wasn’t sure when he got so used to holding your hand but it had begun to feel as essential as breathing. he couldn’t bare to go a day without it.
you glanced at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “what?”
you had noticed his quiet staring.
he shook his head, squeezing your hand just a little tighter.
boyfriend!megumi, who loves it so much whenever you're yapping about some new interest of yours to him. megumi always listens no matter what. it doesn't matter to him if he doesn't completely understand what you're ranting about— he just loves seeing the excitement and spark in your eyes when you're talking nonstop about your latest hyperfixiation.
boyfriend!megumi, who just can't help but smile seeing you. both nobara and yuji have noticed that he smiles a lot whenever he's just with you. everything about you constantly makes his heart flutter in ways he simply cannot explain.
boyfriend!megumi, (who hates to admit it), loves physical touch with you. literally anything. you could be playing with his hair, nomming him, jumping on him, hugging him, etc etc. he loves all of it. so, so much.
boyfriend!megumi, who lets you steal his oversized hoodies and tshirts. you claim that they're very comfortable (more comfortable than your current clothes), and because it has his scent. plus, a bonus for megumi is that you just look so cute waddling around in his clothes. so, he basically shares his wardrobe with you now.
boyfriend!megumi, who's occassionally clingy. especially if you were away for a really long time. he'll wrap his arms around you by the waist, refusing to let go. even if you had to get up for a sip of water, the man will literally pull you back into his arms and shower you with kisses all over.
boyfriend!megumi, who buys flowers on the most randomest days. no reason, just for funsies, and to surprise you. there was a time where he missed you so much, so he ran to your dorm late at night in pouring rain to give you a bouquet of flowers.
boyfriend!megumi, who comforts you after a bad day. he's not very good with his words, but he tries to show care through his actions instead. you sometimes complain, sometimes cry, sometimes yell. megumi listens through all of it attentively without saying much. if you're crying, megumi hugs you tightly, gently rubbing your back. he doesn't care if his shirt gets wet, that isn't the priority. what matters to him the most is you.
a/n : ive ressurected with megumi hcs !! school is beating my ass rn im gonna cry
megumi fushiguro never thought he was the type of guy to fall for a girl like you- let alone someone at the school.
yet there he was, sitting beside you in the courtyard, your fingers lazily intertwined with his as the sunset cast a golden tone over your skin. he wasn’t sure when he got so used to holding your hand but it had begun to feel as essential as breathing. he couldn’t bare to go a day without it.
you glanced at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “what?”
you had noticed his quiet staring.
he shook his head, squeezing your hand just a little tighter.
“nothing.”
he couldn’t imagine it being any other way.
"See, first of all..." @godessofbucky - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
ellievsbear
jbbartram-illu
janainaart
kaledo-art
romaincrisis
areudirty
