𓈒⊹ mdni fluff + silly misunderstandings. reader is a lovergirl. slight yandere suguru. 𓈒⊹
All you really wanted was for him to like you back.
It was pathetic. A foolish girl’s dream wished upon a few too many falling stars.
Staring at the seams of the stained glass window overlooking the quaint village outside, sighing to yourself as you waited to be called into his office.
How many fates were worse than being condemned to a side character in your favorite romance novel? One where you would soon be forced to watch the second male lead you loved so much fall for the leading lady while you were stuck working all day and slumming it in the shitty dorms of the mage’s tower all night?
Even though you had access to magic now, you were barely an amateur, making low-level potions for them to sell to merchants rather than anything remotely cool or exciting.
“He’s ready to see you now.”
Shit.
You didn’t have your story rehearsed.
How the hell were you supposed to explain why you had stolen a handful of restricted books from their archives to research opening a portal back to your real world?
You nervously nodded, brushing down your skirt as you followed his assistant back into his office, sneaking a peek up at the beautiful man behind the desk.
Suguru Geto.
The most talented mage in the past fifty years. Dark hair spilling down his back, half of it tied up in a messy bun that still managed to look deliberate, thin glasses perched on the bridge of his beautiful nose. You didn’t think there was anything about him that wasn’t beautiful.
He came down to the level where you worked a few times a day, always offering warm smiles and murmuring things in that honeyed tone of his, checking in on how everything was going with the rest of the workers. Sometimes you thought he even looked at you, convinced you caught a glimpse of his gaze on your skin only for him to be focused on someone else every time you glanced back.
Sometimes he left treats for everyone. Ordered a round of drinks for the room when you were at the tavern next door.
But you never thought he really noticed you. Until now.
God, you were so going to be fired.
You knew he'd never like you. Not the way he would love her once the story you had the misfortune of getting sucked into started. So why the hell did you have to be punished for just trying to go home?
Even in a place like this where magic existed, you sincerely doubted he'd believe you if you confessed you belonged to another world where this was all just a book.
"Sneaking into the archives is a fireable offense," he spoke sternly, pulling off his glasses to look up at you with soft purple eyes. "Stealing tomes-"
"I'm sorry," you blurted out, your voice coming out all squeaky as you bowed your head with apology.
Maybe if you seemed remorseful enough-
"You weren't trying to sell them on the black market, were you?" He asked, his sharp tone nearly making you flinch as you starting wildly waving your hands in denial.
"No, of course not, I just-" You gasped, taken aback at his accusation just to clamp your lips shut before you could tell him the truth.
"You just what?"
"I just wanted to study some of the spells in it," you muttered, an awkward half-truth.
"Like the love spells?" He asked, your face scrunching up in confusion as you scrambled for a new defense.
What use did he think you have for a love spell?
Your cheeks were heating up, embarrassment coursing through you as you considered the possibility your crush wasn't nearly as subtle as you previously believed.
"N-no," you mumbled, cringing at how unbelievable you sounded.
"You're a cute girl," he murmured, and you wanted to dissolve into a puddle on the spot, a little whimper threatening to leave your throat as he pushed back his chair and stood up. "Why do you need a spell to get someone to love you?"
"I really wasn't-"
"The date you took it out was the same day the prince came by to visit," he commented, as if he was making a connection your humiliated brain was struggling to comprehend. "Was it for him?"
Just when you thought it couldn't get worse, he was convinced that you were a loser so in love with a man out of your league that you were willing to cast a spell to capture his heart.
"Am I being fired?" You impulsively asked, itching to just go back to your room and collect the meager handful of belongings you had and leave before your pride could take another hit. You'd rather go be a waitress or find work somewhere else than live like this.
"I was thinking of a reassignment," he hummed, a hint of a sly smile curling up on his lips as you contemplated just quitting instead. It's not like he'd expend any energy searching for you if you ran away either.
"Reassignment?" You nervously echoed, fiddling with your fingers.
"I've been needing a new apprentice," he murmured, shrugging his shoulders as his robes fluttered around him. Dignified. A dangerous glint in his swirling stare as it seared straight through to your shaking soul. "I appreciate your, ah, unconventional thirst for knowledge."
"Really, I, uh, couldn't dream of accepting," you tried to insist, caught off guard again as he effortlessly disarmed all the excuses you'd been preparing. "I'm flattered, but I'm not nearly skilled enough-"
"His Highness comes to visit me regularly," he added, as if it sweetened his offer, and you wondered if he could feel the heat of your humiliation burning you up from across the room. "I can't allow you to test your spells on him, of course, but-"
"I wouldn't do that," you protested, nearly stomping your foot in frustration as your lips pushed out in a pout.
He paused, smiling nonchalantly as he pulled out a paper from the thick stack on his desk and dipped his quill in ink, holding both out for you.
"Uh-huh," he hummed. "Please sign here to confirm your new assignment. It comes with a higher pay and a better dorm."
"I would be working directly under you?" You asked, swallowing hard as you eyed the parchment.
"Learning from the very best," he confirmed, eyes crinkling softly as he tilted his head to the side.
Spending your shifts by his side instead of the back of the sidelines.
Even if he thought your heart was in someone else's hands.
Perhaps that was for the best.
You'd be forced to move on if you were faced with proof of his disinterest every single day.
"Okay," you anxiously accepted, nervously walking over to his desk, leaning over to take the quill from his hands and sign your name by the X. "If you're sure you want me."
"I want you."
𓈒⊹
More than you knew.
Suguru ran his fingers over the dried ink of your name, still clinging to the faint traces of your perfume in the air, glancing up at the door you just walked out of as he sighed.
It wasn't his fault you had enraptured him from the first moment he picked up on the strange aura that surrounded you. Who could blame him for being addicted to your shy attention, the adorable affection you were too scared to show him? Shyly staring and sneaking around trying to look up love potions?
He liked your desperation.
How was it any different to devotion?
It was obvious on your face when he asked about the prince that you were trying to just cover up your crush for him.
Was he supposed to not find it cute?
He filed your contract away, an easy smirk curling up on his face as he got one last look at the fine print.
A little love spell of his own. Sealed by your own signature
feminine intution | gojo satoru x you
⟡ fluff, parasocial reader, inspired by drop dead by olivia <3 | 2.6k
You’re staring.
You’re staring because he’s standing outside the lecture hall, white hair catching the early fall sun like something out of a purple shampoo commercial. He’s laughing at something the boy beside him said, head thrown back, completely not self-conscious about just how loud he is. Half the quad looks over at him; he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
But oh, you notice.
Rei appears at your elbow with two iced matchas and follows your gaze.
“Oh,” she says simply, as if she had unfolded your exact thoughts that have occupied your head in the last 2 minutes, “absolutely not.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Pshh. You didn’t have to.” She pushes your drink into your hand and loops her arm through yours, pulling you firmly in the opposite direction. “Come on, we’re gonna be late again.”
You let her pull you. But you look back at him, just a teeny glance, and he’s still laughing. You look back again. The sun is still doing that thing to his hair, and you should’ve listened to Rei... absolutely not.
His name, you learn from scouring the internet, LinkedIn pages, and a lot of embarrassing research (a Myriad of student organizations and Instagram mutuals), is Satoru Gojo. He’s a second year, like you, but in the physics department. He has an unreasonable number of followers for a college student. He once won a regional swimming tournament at eighteen, and there are photos. Lots of photos.
A person with dignity would share none of this with their friends, but because you have none, you share all of this with your friends.
Not long after, the group chat is buzzing about your parasocial relationship with Satoru. Aya sends a screenshot of him from the university’s physics department website.
aya: your future husband looks confused in this photo
you: he is NOT my future husband.
…
you: yet
The group chat is then filled with wedding ring and at least 10 kissing emojis.
You put your phone down on your bed and try to study for the exam you have tomorrow. But you have no self-control, and pick it back up thirty seconds later.
To preface, you’re minding your own business, sitting in the back corner of the 4th floor in the library. Your headphones are in, and your notes are spread sporadically across the table.
You were minding your business until he sat down across from you. Satoru Gojo is so close that when you glance up from your screen, you are looking directly at him. He’s got a yellow pad open and squinting at whatever problem he’s trying to solve.
He never looks up. You spend the next thirty minutes reading the same page of your textbook, you barely pick up your pen to write notes, and if you did, they are completely illegible.
To your dismay, he leaves before you do, yellow pad tucked under his arm, but on his way out, he glances over at you and gives you a friendly nod... and then he’s gone.
You text the group chat immediately.
you: i need you guys to know that i am not okay
You spent the entire winter break convincing yourself you’re over Satoru Gojo. Pining over a man for a whole semester when he doesn’t even know your name is useless. He’s just a person… A very tall person with a handsome face and an unfair laugh, and definitely not an angel… A person.
You’ve been back on campus for the spring semester for only four hours before you see him crossing the quad with a latte in each hand, handing one to the boy next to him, all while telling a story that makes the entire group around him laugh. He’s wearing a black puffer, sunglasses perched on his head despite the gloomy January sky, and he looks so unreal that you’re paranoid you made him up-
You walk directly into a trash can.
It makes an embarrassingly loud noise that makes a few people look over. You keep walking.
You are not over it.
It’s snowing lightly, but the kind that doesn’t stick. You’re in line at the convenience store on campus, holding a cup of instant ramen when he walks in.
You become extremely interested in the nutrition label on the cup. Sodium content, fascinating. The fat content? Riveting.
You hear him line up behind you. You are so normal. You are going to be so normal about this, so normal that you’re going to keep reading the ingredients list on a cup ramen at 11 oclock at night.
“Those are good,” he says.
You look up. Satoru Gojo is pointing at the cup in your hands, and he’s also apparently talking to you.
“Yeah.” You croak.
“Spicy miso,” he says, nodding, “good choice. The beef one is depressing.”
You let out a sound that might be a laugh, you’re unsure right now. He smiles, then the line moves, and you pay and leave before your face can betray the feelings you’ve had for him for the last six months.
You stand outside in the cold, under the snow, and pull your phone out.
you: he talked to me
you: 12 words
you: im going to hurl
aya: TWELVE????? oh we’re framing this
The campus bar closes at eleven. You know this because post-exam celebrations have been here enough times for you to memorize the way the lights get a little brighter at around 10:45, the owner’s subtle cue that it’s time to start wrapping up.
But the corner booth still has your friends piled into it, Rei’s pink cheeks and happy on her birthday, Sora giggling at Suzu belting the song playing over the speakers, and the table scattered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins.
You’re unsure when he got here.
Aya spots him first; she always does. It’s her superpower, you think. She essentially gives you warning signals not to do something embarrassing. This time, she kicks you under the table without saying anything. You look up.
Satoru Gojo is at the same bar as you are, with a few people you don’t recognize, a half-finished beer in front of him, leaning on one elbow and talking with the confidence of someone who has never once felt out of place in their life.
Someone says something funny, and he tips his head back, laughing, and the bar lights catch the white of his hair and the line of his throat just like it did back in the early fall.
You’ve thought about this way too many times. In a joking way, a fun way, the way you text the group chat about him and make it into something light, poking at your own parasocial tendencies. But sitting here right now, watching Satoru Gojo exist from across the bar at 10:40 a tonight, it doesn’t feel like a joke.
“You okay?” Rei asks quietly beside you.
“Y-Yeah.” You hum.
She follows your gaze and doesn’t say anything, which is somehow worse than if she said her usual, absolutely not.
You look away. Then you look back. To your dismay, he’s still there. He’s still going to be there until the lights completely turn on and the servers start collecting cups, but you’re going to sit in this booth and do absolutely nothing about it, which is exactly what you’ve been doing for the whole school year, and that is fine. You are fine. That was always the plan.
The song overhead starts to play something older and slow, and you hear him even from the other end of the bar, starting to sing along. He has always been unselfconsciously himself, from obnoxiously laughing in the quad, nodding at you in the library, and making small talk about cup ramen. Satoru Gojo has never apologized for being himself.
Aya leans over. “You should go say something.”
“I did once. We talked about ramen.”
“Babe.” She looks at you with an expression that is both fond and sad. “That is not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She doesn’t push. She fills your shot glass instead, Sora starts a new story, your booth gets loud again, and for a moment you’re back in it, laughing at something, leaning into the warmth of your friends, forgetting all about Satoru Gojo.
The bar gets louder after the last round of drinks is called. Someone in the back booth cheers, Sora knocks over a glass (it thankfully doesn't break), and Rei's birthday sash ends up around her neck like a scarf.
It’s the type of loud that makes you feel invisible. It makes you slip out of the booth quietly to get air.
The bar door swings shut behind you, and suddenly the sound of the music is muffled, the street is cold and dark, and you let out a long breath, watching it fog up in front of you.
You feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
aya: GO TALK TO HIMMM
aya: NOWWWWW
The door opens again behind you. You don’t look up; you assume it’s Suzu or a stranger needing air. But then they stop next to you and lean back against the wall the same way you are, and you can’t help yourself from looking over.
Satoru Gojo.
He’s got his black puffer on now, hands in his pockets, looking straight ahead. He’s looking out at the street, squinting slightly at nothing in particular, like he also just needed a second, like maybe he also felt invisible.
You put your phone away. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The bar noise bleeds faintly through the door, and somewhere down the block, someone is laughing.
"Needed air?" he asks, still looking at the street.
"Something like that."
He nods like that's a reasonable answer. "Fun night in there."
"Yeah." You glance over at him. "Your friends seem fun."
He turns his head then, just slightly, enough to look at you from the corner of his eyes. "You know who I am."
It isn't a question. Your face goes warm despite the chill.
"Campus is small," you say, which is kinda true, and also not really an answer.
Something shifts in his expression. “How small?"
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it anything." But his voice has that rhythm to it now. "I noticed you, too, you know. In the library."
You look at him then, because you can't not. "The library..."
"You had your headphones in. You were highlighting everything on the page." A pause. "I don't think you were actually reading anything."
Your mouth opens. Then closes. "I was reading-."
"Sure."
"I was."
He's fully smiling now, and you are going to combust on this sidewalk, right here, outside this bar, in front of everyone. The door swings open behind you, and a group spills out, loud and laughing, popping the bubble of quiet you've both been standing in.
You both shift slightly apart without meaning to. And then Aya's head appears in the doorway, her eyes finding you immediately.
"We're heading out," she says. "Rei's calling it."
You look back at him. He's watching you with his hands still in his pockets.
"I'll see you," you say.
"Yeah," he says, quietly. "You will."
You follow Aya inside. She grabs your arm the second the door closes and makes a sound directly into your shoulder.
"I know," you say.
"DO YOU?" she hisses.
Things happen after that night. Small things.
He texts you (you still aren't entirely sure of how he got your number, and when you asked him, he just said, I asked around like that was a completely normal thing). The texts are causal, nothing things, observations, and the occasional questions. But they come at odd hours, and he responds fast, always, and you've stopped pretending that it doesn't mean anything.
He finds you in the library again. Same table, same corner. But this time, he sits next to you. You spend two hours not really studying. He steals your highlighter and doesn't give it back, you don't complain.
Aya asks almost daily if you've told him.
You haven’t.
You’re at the same bar, the one that closes at 11. Two months later, a different birthday, but the same corner booth, and the same low lighting.
Satoru invited you. He texted four days ago.
satoru: suguru's bday friday, you should come
satoru: invite your friends too!
You'd stared at the text long enough that Aya took your phone and typed we'll be there before you could overthink it. You've been equal parts grateful and furious with her since.
The two tables pushed together hold everyone easily, his friends folding into yours. Suguru is being roasted every twenty minutes. Rei has already swapped jackets with someone she met an hour ago. Aya and Suzu complain about a class they have together.
Satoru is beside you again. He talks to everyone, laughs loudly at the table, but he keeps coming back to you between all of it, small whispers, things meant only for you.
By 10:30, the table has spread itself around the bar, Suguru pulled toward the birthday shots, Aya deep in conversation with someone you don't know, Rei on the dance floor, and it's just you and Satoru in the corner, and it's just been the two of you for long enough now that it doesn't feel awkward. It feels like the most natural arrangement in the world, which is its own kind of terrifying.
It's almost 11. The lights haven't gone bright yet, but the energy in the bar has lowered. You slip away from the booth toward the back of the bar, and the line for the bathroom is longer than it should be for a Tuesday night. You join it nonetheless, checking your phone, and thirty seconds later, someone slots in behind you.
You don't have to look to know.
"You're following me," you say, without looking up.
"I also have to use the bathroom," Satoru says, unbothered.
You look up at him over your shoulder. The hallway is narrow, which means he's closer than he would be anywhere else, which means you are suddenly extremely aware of the exact (or lack of) distance between you.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you say back.
His eyes stay on yours, and there is absolutely nothing casual about the way he's looking at you right now, and you should say it... right now. You've seen his face a hundred times. You have tattooed it to your memory, in stolen glances, in your peripheral vision, in the glow of a physics department webpage you visited way too many times for someone who doesn't take physics.
Up close, in the narrow red-lit hallway, he is genuinely unfair. The angles of his face make you feel lightheaded. His jaw, the line of his throat, all of it lands on your heart like a bomb.
You are so down bad. You have been so down bad since the first time you saw him. You are down bad in the bathroom line of the only bar open on campus on a Tuesday, and he is looking at you like that, and you think, with the last functional part of your brain... say it.
"Satoru-"
"I know," he interrupts.
And then he kisses you.
His hand finds your jaw, and he kisses you like he's been working up to it for longer than tonight. When he pulls back, you're pressed between him and the wall, and you can't quite remember how that happened.
"You could have said something," you manage.
The corner of his mouth lifts. "So could you."
You’re going to drop dead... you think.
author's note: sorry for disappearing, the trajectory of my life changed but my obsession for satoru hasn't.
୭🧷✧˚.🎀༘ ᵎᵎ sukuna doesn’t like silent treatment from you.
usually, you talk.
you hum while you move around the kitchen, some off-key melody that drifts through the apartment like background music he’d never admit he likes. you comment on everything he does— the way he sits, the way he breathes too loud, the way he leaves his cup on the counter instead of the dishwasher. you complain when he steals your food, shoving his shoulder and calling him names that make his lips twitch. you ask him stupid little questions like “do you think cats know they're cute?” while he’s trying to work, and he always grumbles, always tells you to shut up, but he never actually makes you stop.
your voice fills the apartment. fills the spaces between rooms, between silences, between him and whatever he was before you.
so the silence feels… wrong.
sukuna looks up from the couch when you walk past him, bare feet padding across the floor like always, but something’s off. you don’t look at him. you don’t say anything. your eyes stay fixed ahead, fixed on nothing, fixed anywhere but him, and you just grab your phone charger from the outlet near the TV and disappear into the bedroom.
he frowns.
his head turns slightly, tracking the path you took, the bedroom door now closed where it’s usually left open.
“…oi.”
no answer.
he stares at the door for a long moment, waiting for the click of it opening again, waiting for you to pop your head back out with some excuse, some complaint, anything. nothing.
the bedroom door stays closed.
five minutes later, he’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight.
you’re sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, scrolling on your phone like he doesn’t exist. your thumb moves lazily up the screen, and your expression gives nothing away—no annoyance, no amusement, no flicker of recognition that he’s standing here at all.
“…you deaf?”
you give him nothing, yet again. you don’t even glance up or roll your pretty eyes at him. no “what do you want, sukuna?” in that flat tone you use when he’s being annoying.
his eye twitches.
“what’s your problem, woman?”
you continue scrolling.
he waits a second. two. three. your thumb keeps moving over the screen like he’s not even worth the air it would take to respond.
“are you seriously ignoring me right now?”
you reach for your water on the nightstand. lift it. drink. set it back down. still nothing.
sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, a sound that’s half frustration and half something he doesn’t want to name.
“that’s cute,” he mutters, pushing off the doorframe. “real cute.”
he leaves, wondering what the hell is even going on. alas, maybe you just need more time to come around from whatever the fuck was bothering you.
—
ten minutes later, you come out of the room.
he’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms still crossed, watching the hallway like a predator waiting for prey.
you walk past him without a word and open the fridge.
he closes it.
you blink at him, finally, finally looking at him, but there's nothing in your eyes. there’s no heat, no irritation, just flat acknowledgment, like he’s an obstacle and nothing more.
“move,” you say calmly.
“no.”
you stare at him. he stares back harder, jaw set, eyes narrow.
“sukuna.”
“say my name nicer.”
your expression flattens completely, and you move to walk around him, reaching for the fridge door again. he shuts it before your fingers can touch the handle.
you sigh, a soft exhale through your nose that’s somehow more infuriating than if you’d screamed at him.
“…can you not.”
“can you stop acting like i don’t exist? use your words like a grown woman and tell me what’s wrong instead of this— this bullshit.”
you turn away from him entirely, opening cabinets instead, pulling out a bowl with movements that are too calm. his jaw tightens so hard it aches. he fucking hates it when you ignore him.
“are you mad because of that thing this morning?” he asks, and he hates that it comes out like a question, hates that he doesn’t know, hates that you're making him guess.
you grab a bowl.
he takes it out of your hands.
you grab another.
he takes that one too, stacking it on top of the first, holding them both out of reach.
“are you five?” you mutter, and there it is— the first crack in your armor, the first sound you've made that isn’t flat and empty. there’s even a hint of anger there that he likes.
“are you going to talk to me like a normal person or keep this stupid silent treatment going?”
you try to walk past him, but he steps in front of you.
you step to the side.
he moves with you, blocking your path, his body a wall you can't get around.
you glare up at him.
he glares down at you, and there’s fire in your eyes now, finally something other than nothing.
“move.”
“no.”
“sukuna.”
“talk to me properly, woman. i’m not moving until you do.”
you turn and walk away.
he stands there for three seconds, the bowls still in his hands, your footsteps retreating down the hall.
“oh, for fuck’s sake.”
he drops the bowls on the counter and follows you. you make it halfway to the bedroom before he grabs your wrist and pulls you back, spinning you around.
you stumble into his chest, hands coming up automatically to brace yourself against him, and his arm wraps around your waist immediately, locking you there, tight and unyielding.
“where do you think you’re going?” he mutters, voice low, rough around the edges.
you try to wiggle away, pushing at his chest, but he doesn’t budge, just tightens his hold, pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you.
“let go.”
“no.”
you cross your arms over your chest, trapping them between you, and refuse to look at him. stare at his shoulder instead, at the wall behind him, anywhere but his face.
he leans down, bringing his mouth close to your ear.
“…you’re really not going to look at me?”
he huffs, breath warm against your skin, when you ignore him once again. his nose presses into your cheek, nuzzling insistently.
you jerk, surprised. “sukuna—”
he kisses your cheek once. twice. three times in a row, quick and obnoxious, loud smacking sounds that are absolutely purposeful.
you turn your face away, pressing your cheek into your shoulder to hide.
he follows, relentless, kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
“stop.”
“no.”
another kiss, softer this time, right on the hinge of your jaw. another, on the shell of your ear. another, on the spot just below that makes your breath catch.
you push at his chest harder. “you’re annoying.”
“you’re ignoring me.” kiss. “that’s worse.” kiss. “way worse.” kiss. “you didn’t talk to me for forty minutes, woman.” kiss. “forty.” kiss. “minutes.”
you try to stay mad, you really do, but his arms are tight around you, warm and stubborn, and he’s kissing your face like he’s personally offended by the concept of distance, like your silence is a personal attack he’s fighting back against with lips and teeth and the scratch of his stubble against your skin.
he presses a slow one right against your lips.
you freeze.
he lingers there, mouth soft against yours, not moving, not pushing, just pressing.
“…there,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice quiet, almost gentle. “now you talked to me.”
you blink up at him, contemplating for a little bit, and your expression shifts, softens, breaks.
“you’re so dramatic.”
his arms tighten, pulling you flush against him, and there’s something easily recognisable in his eyes— relief, maybe, or satisfaction, or both.
“you didn’t talk to me for forty minutes,” he repeats, like it’s the most absurd thing in the world.
“you ate my dessert this morning.”
he pauses.
“…that was yours?”
you stare at him, expression flat and unimpressed.
his eyes narrow, processing, “you left it in the fridge. that means it’s public property. that’s the rule.”
“that’s not a rule. and i literally told you that it’s mine!”
“it’s my rule. and i don’t care.”
“i hate you.”
“no you don’t.”
you try to step away. he pulls you right back, arms like iron vices around you.
“you don’t get to be mad again after i fixed it. i did the work. i kissed your face like twelve times. we’re past it.”
“you didn’t fix anything.”
he kisses you properly this time.
his mouth moves against yours like nothing else matters and the last forty minutes of silence never happened. his hand slides up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, holding you in place like he’s making sure you don't escape.
when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm on your lips.
“…next time,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded as they roam over your features, “use your words. i don’t do guessing games.”
you poke his chest, right over his heart.
“next time, don’t eat my food.”
“can’t promise that.”
you try to glare, but he kisses your nose, your cheek, your mouth again, quick and soft, a peck that’s almost apologetic.
“but you’re not allowed to ignore me,” he adds quietly, voice dropping low. “i hate it.”
you blink, caught off guard by the honesty in his voice.
“you do?”
his arms tighten around you, pulling you impossibly closer.
“yeah. hate it.” another small kiss, just because he can. “…apartment’s too quiet without you, woman. can’t focus. can't think. just— wrong.”
your heart melts immediately, right there in his arms, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks, the way your eyes go soft. you bury your face into his chest, hiding against the fabric of his shirt.
“…fine.”
his hand comes up to the back of your head, holding you there, fingers carding gently through your hair.
“good,” he murmurs, and you can feel the rumble of it in his chest.
—
“so what dessert was it?”
you pull back slowly, looking up at him.
“you don’t even know what you ate? you animal!”
“yeah whatever.”
“it was chocolate cake.”
he grimaces, nose wrinkling.
“worth it.”
you smack his shoulder.
he just grins, sharp and fond, and kisses you again.
Hello everyone, given what has been happening to me ( @kamitv ) and my fellow writers ( @tonycries & @madamechrissy ) on here lately, I've decided to come on here (my unflagged account, lol) and make a simple tutorial on how to see mature content on your account/dashboard, wtv.
If you are receiving the following message when looking for your favorite writer's blog, works, etc;
The following is what you'll need to do to fix that.
First you need to go to tumblr's website, I'm unsure why but the option simply does not appear anywhere on the app and you must go through the web for this. (This tutorial is given from the perspective of visiting tumblr.com via mobile device) From there on it's pretty simple.
Once here, you'll need to click on the little hamburger up in your top left corner;
Then the following drop down menu will appear and you need to go to your settings! Under settings, click account.
Once there, you’ll simply need to scroll down until you find “Content Labels”. If you’re facing this issue, it will likely have “Show mature content” as off. Turn it on, along with “Blur mature content” and everything should return to normal for you on both the website and the app.
P.S. IF YOUR ACCOUNT IS REGISTERED UNDER THE AGE OF 18, THIS WILL (obviously) NOT WORK!!! & to my knowledge, tumblr doesn’t allow you to change your bday without reaching out to them, etc.
₍^. .^₎⟆ synopsis: the quiet, unspoken and sincere ways ryomen sukuna shows his love for you. and the one time he actually says it.
tags: college!AU, emotionally repressed bf!sukuna, 4 times he didn't and the 1 time he did trope, tooth rotting fluff, mild angst, light descriptions of: injury, creepy guy hitting on r, allusions to bad family relationship for r
word count: 5.2k
april 3rd, outside the library - he waits for you (and gives you his jacket)
it's a crisp spring day when the cold suddenly creeps up on sukuna’s spine, the rustling of leaves blowing up the cuffs of his jeans. it’s instinctive how he lets out a long sigh, watching his cigarette smoke in the air curl and fade away into the ink blank sky. the rumbling of his motorbike annoys him, so he switches off the engine, his scowl ever so present as he stares at his phone for the nth time.
6:48pm.
you'd said you'd be done with your exam by 6.
tapping his foot on the floor, he inhales deeply, attempting to calm his quickening heartbeat. it's probably nothing, he assures himself, but he doesn't like that he doesn't know what's causing you to be running over time. he wants to bed in bed with you already, watching you rub off your sunscreen in the mirror and pretending to be annoyed at the way you curl into his shoulder in nothing but his shirt, left eye peeking at him through sleepy lashes-
the front door slides open, the sound of boots hitting the floor as you walk out of the building. You’re unharmed, but clearly exhausted, with one sleeve of your cardigan nearly dragging on the floor. your tired eyes blink blankly at the concrete floor, before widening at the sight of sukuna standing there, still and observing.
you’re cold just from having exited the building. you can’t imagine how much colder sukuna must be.
"i told you to go home if i was more than 30 minutes late." you say softly, regathering the books in your hands.
wordlessly and with a scowl, he just walks over to take the heavy textbooks off your hands and shove them into the back of his motorcycle. even if his expression hasn't changed, his left hand curls around your wrist gently and he pulls you right against him, letting his scarlet eyes trail up and down your face in greater detail. after some time, he finally speaks.
"you look like shit."
"thanks, kuna." you snort, shaking your head sideways. he just raises his eyebrow at you, hand still on your wrist.
"what happened?"
"the computer shut down with about an hour left to go on the exam. the exam proctor had to troubleshoot the software on the spot and they had to give me an extra hour to finish the rest of it." you involuntarily shiver again as another cold wind blows through the now empty parking lot. "you should've gone home without me." you pout, aware that he’s been waiting outside for nearly an hour.
he gives you an unimpressed look.
"and leave your driver licence-less ass stranded on campus?" his tone is flat, but his eyes soften in a way that you can only describe as affection.
"my hero." you joke, wrapping your arms around his waist.
he quiets, his left arm sneaking up to pull you against him even closer, as you revel in his body heat. you swear your boyfriend is the equivalent to a human furnace, always warm and soft to the touch. the thin cardigan around your shoulder is doing nothing from stopping the night air from creeping in, and sukuna immediately notices the way your skin rises in goosebumps before he immediately shrugs off his leather jacket.
"you sure?" you ask carefully, considering your boyfriend is only wearing a white tank top underneath. swinging his leg over his motorcycle, he just nods and pats the seat behind him.
"i'll live." he pauses, irises flicking down to enjoy the sight of you in his jacket. "don't forget to put on your helmet."
it's your turn to roll your eyes playfully, strapping on the helmet to your head before sitting down behind him. your arms squeeze around his torso as his motorcycle engine revs into life, the loud popping noise echoing through the empty streets. the city blurs into yellow lights and grey roads, and his hand never leaves yours when he helps you get off the motorcycle.
"is it alright if i shower first?"
he just shrugs, carefully gathering up your textbooks in his free arm and setting them down on the kitchen counter. whilst you scrub off the mess of the day you've had in the bathroom, he washes the dishes, unloads your bag neatly on the table, and fishes out a fresh change of clothes for you to sleep into.
he's already on his side of the bed when you peek your head from the bathroom door, hair wet and towel draped around your body.
"no shower for you tonight?"
"what, do i stink?"
you giggle, enjoying the grumpy look on his face.
"no, just wondering."
"just get into bed." is what he says, huffing like an upset child, choosing to purposefully leave out the part where he quickly wants to be able to cuddle with you in bed. it feels like centuries as you change into your night clothes, brush your teeth, dry your hair, and climb into the space next to him.
it takes all his willpower to not jump you right and there, tackling you underneath the covers to make the process go faster.
you flick off the final lamp in the room, bathing the space in darkness as you feel around in the dark for sukuna's muscular body. you yelp when he suddenly pulls you straight up against him, a satisfied hum escaping his throat when his lips meet your shoulder.
"you're my favorite person in the world, you know that?" you mumble sleepily when you feel his legs entangling with yours, exhaustion rolling in.
"tch. you're insane."
"mmmm but you love me for it."
he doesn't answer, but squeezes you tighter, nose burrowing into the crook of your shoulder. he holds you like that silently in the dark, two warm bodies molding into each other, as sleep overtakes the room.
june 28th, a beach holiday - he listens to you
it's hot.
the summer sun hits the shoreline perfectly, glittering waves over navy blue waters, the smell of sunscreen and sweat permeates the air.
you're a tasteful beach photocard brought to life: lounging on a sunchair next to shoko, sunglasses hanging low off the bridge of your nose, skin peeking through the dips and curves of your swimsuit as you talk animatedly about something that shoko seems equally interested in.
"earth to ryomen sukuna." gojo smirks, snapping his fingers next to sukuna's ears like he's a dog. sukuna blinks, before tearing his gaze away from you towards the volleyball net. "if we have to stop every few seconds for you to drool over your girlfriend, we'll never get through the first match."
"wasn't doing anything." sukuna grunts out, picking up the volleyball from the sand and wiping it clean.
"yes you were." is geto's equally dry reply from the other side of the net, and sukuna responds by throwing the ball high into the air and spiking it to the other side, narrowly missing toji.
"hey, take it out on geto, not me." toji drawls, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
"whatever. just hurry up with the next throw." sukuna scowls, before it immediately softens at the sound of your laughter a few feet away.
the game is fast paced and intense, just the way sukuna likes it. then gojo strikes the ball at an odd angle, causing it to fly towards the beach.
"i got it!" you announce, jogging towards the shoreline to retrieve the ball. sukuna watches with a low grin until another man steps into the frame, his shadow falling over your bent figure as you stand up with the ball in your hands.
from where sukuna is standing, he can only make out the back of the stranger's body - brunette hair, tall but clearly shorter than sukuna, cocky by the way his spine straightens when you look up at him confused.
the good natured chatter of his friends fade into the background as sukuna's senses zero in on you, and with the slightest pursing of your lips and rehearsed nod of your head, he knows to intervene.
"i mean, hey, what are the chances we're both from the same university?" the stranger flirts, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes, as if jujutsu tech isn't the most popular university in the entire city and this beach isn't the most popular spot for university students to flock to during the summer holidays.
you spot a blur of pink hair before a muscular build is creating a physical wall between the stranger and yourself, sukuna's distinct cologne of mint and sandalwood filling your senses. it feels like a safety blanket is being wrapped around your shoulders in an instant, as sukuna simply glares at the man before turning around to face you, his larger hands crowding yours on top of the ball.
"thanks for catching the ball, babe." his voice is soft, and low, in a way that makes your heart flutter.
"it's no problem."
"hey, we were in the middle of a conversation, jackass." the stranger spits out, causing sukuna's jaw to clench in annoyance.
"then i'm interrupting you from bothering my girlfriend, jackass." sukuna spits out with the same amount of venom, if not more, scarlet eyes fading ink black in anger.
despite being shorter in stature, the man doesn't seem to back down, only puffing out his chest and stepping closer.
"you let your girlfriend dress like that to the beach and not expect her to get hit on?"
something shifts in the air at the comment, and you can tell by the way sukuna's fingers start twitching, his throat bobbing in dark anticipation, that he's attempting to control his anger before it bursts. sukuna can teach this man a lesson - in many, painful ways.
but he chooses to look back at you first.
and when you shake your head sideways, discouraging him-
his shoulders drop the tension.
he steps forward, but only to grab the man's wrist harshly and twist it in an angle enough to hurt but not fully damage.
"listen closely, asshole, because i'll only say this once. now usually, i would beat the shit out of arrogant sexist assholes like you with great pleasure. but my girlfriend here wants me to do this civilly, so you get to live another day. congrats. but let me be fucking crystal clear-" he twists the man's arm a bit more, making the stranger cry out in pain, before leaning in closer. "you try that shit again on my girl, or any other girl on this beach, then you won't be answering to just me."
sukuna flicks his head towards his friends - where geto, gojo and toji all stare down at the man with a quiet, murderous gaze - before shoving the man backwards with a smirk.
the brunette nearly trips on his feet with how fast he runs away, and sukuna scoffs at the sight before turning around to look at you.
"are you alright?"
all the anger and tension on his sculpted face dissipates into worry, previously fierce gaze melting in concern. you just smile up at him, sweet and light, before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.
"yeah. thanks kuna. for defending me. and for listening to me."
the tips of his ears flush pink, and when gojo yells about it from across the beach, he looks at you panicked.
"i'm not blushing. it's just hot." he insists, talking down more to the sand than to you.
you just smile sweeter, patting his head.
"alright kuna. i believe you." you totally don’t believe him, and he can tell by the amused smile on your face.
"i'm serious." he looks up at you, unimpressed.
you giggle, shoving the volleyball into his chest and pushing him towards his teammates.
"alright... go and play, okay? i'll be with shoko. love you."
he nods, softly, checking that you're alright one more time before hesitantly running after gojo.
october 16th, the university hospital - he cries over you
it's supposed to be a happy day for sukuna.
he did better on his mid-terms than he thought he would. he managed to score the final touchdown in the last football game, securing a place in the finals for his team. the road was emptier than usual when he rode his motorcycle onto campus for the day, and he'd manage to get the last two almond crossaints at the bakery you adore along the way.
he feels light on his feet. like he's walking on air, and the crisp autumn air allows him to fully breathe.
then a single phone call cracks his world in half.
"hello, is this ryomen sukuna i'm speaking to?"
"yes, that's me."
his brain only processes fragments of the conversation - your name. fainting. a flight of stairs. emergency room.
the elevator ride up to the surgery room operating on you is the longest thirty seconds of his life, and he narrowly misses the rows of tired nurses and anxious patients crowding the hallways. the hospital door bursts open with how quickly he slams it open, causing the doctor jotting down notes next to your bed to jump up in shock. the nurse to your left sends him a sorry smile – “are you her emergency co-“
“ryomen sukuna. yeah. we uh-“ he can’t help but let his eyes drift away from the conversation and towards you. you’re sleeping. you have a slight gash on your head, faded blood turning into caramel brown, your lips puffier than usual from where it’s split. your left leg is slightly elevated, a white cast wrapped tightly around your ankle. you’re not in your usual clothes, no hoodie that you stole from him months ago or the keyring you’re obsessed with dangling from your comically big laptop bag.
no, instead, you’re in an ugly white and blue hospital garb and… so silent.
it’s heartbreaking and overwhelming all at once.
he doesn’t even realize he never finished his sentence, or that he’s just been standing there, staring at your injured and tired body wordlessly. the nurse and the doctor exchange a look, and the doctor’s eyes crinkle in kindness.
“she’s just sleeping. thankfully, no major injuries. her facial injuries are surface level and she has no broken bones, just a twisted ankle that should heal within a few weeks with minimal pressure being placed on her left ankle.” the doctor explains carefully, smiling easily at sukuna’s unreadable expression. his face is flat, but the uncertainty in his eyes and flexing of his fists make it clear that he’s terrified.
“she uh, she fainted?” his throat feels dry, paper dry, as he licks his lips to ease the anxiety. he moves carefully towards you, hands reflexively coming up to feel your pulse. it’s there, light and consistent, but he hates how hollow your face looks under the hospital lights and that you’re not awake to tease him for being worried.
“dehydration and lack of sleep, we think. has she been sleeping and resting properly?” the doctor asks, looking up from her notes. sukuna’s breath catches in his throat. he’d been so focused on his mid-terms and on his upcoming football game, weighed by the position of team leader and prospect of making finals for the first time in five years for the university, that he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should’ve. looking back, he could see it now. the endless nights where he’d go to bed before you, with you softly reassuring him that you’d just be “another 30 minutes.” the piles of plastic cups of iced coffee and protein bar wrappers littering the trash. how you’d fall asleep during movie date nights and wake up all embarrassed.
god, he was such a shit boyfriend.
the wave of realization hits him like a tidal wave, heart icy cold, tears stinging the edges of his eyes. he clenches his jaw so hard it physically hurts, as he forces himself to tear his eyes away from your sleeping figure and answer the doctor.
“i… i suppose she hasn’t been sleeping as much as she used to.”
the doctor nods, flipping over a page and signalling the nurse to exit the room.
“assuming she passes her cognitive and physicals once she wakes up, we should be able to discharge her. please make sure she rests properly, lots of fluids, at least 7 hours of sleep every day, and no heavy physical activity. in general, she should try and avoid walking on her left ankle for about a week. do you have any questions?”
all he can think about is how fucking stupid he is for missing all the signs. how full of himself he must’ve been, a careless boyfriend, to not have noticed that you were crashing and burning in the background. he feels, no, knows – that if the roles were reserved, that you would’ve noticed in a flash and been at his beck and call…
“yes ma’am. understood.” is all he can get out, chest hollow yet bursting with guilt simultaneously.
the middle aged woman nods firmly, but kindly, at sukuna before exiting the room. as the room descends back into silence, sukuna sinks into the empty chair next to you, his hands coming up to clasp your still ones.
“i’m… such a shithead, princess. fuck.”
the first tear catches him by surprise, the edges of his irises stinging as the room momentarily blurs. he feels something wet sliding down his dry cheeks, liquid curling at the bottom of his lips as he chokes on a repressed sob, trying to hold it together in case you wake up. your hands feel cold against his warm ones, as he desperately kneads circles into your skin, trying to calm himself down.
you're alive.
you're breathing.
you're safe.
though, god, it doesn't feel like it at all.
staring at your wordless body in the dark, it feels like a hot knife is slicing through his heart, the weight of judgment heavy on his shoulders.
it's 10:23pm when he hears the sound of groaning and fabric shifting.
his eyes fly open in a millisecond, spine straightening as he grips the hospital bed railings in surprise. your groggy eyes blink up at the pristine white ceilings before falling onto sukuna's face, tired but eyes alive with relief, as he's standing up and right by your side in a second.
"you're awake." he breathes out, like the first proper breath he's been able to exhale for the past 10 or so hours.
"w-what happened?" you groan, trying to sit upright - only for it to leave a stinging pain down your spine. seeing your face twist in pain, sukuna is quick to place a sturdy hand on your back and carefully pull you upwards, making sure to rearrange the pillows behind you to accommodate the new angle.
"you fainted. dehydration and lack of sleep. y-" he bites down his previous feelings of fear, despair and guilt, physically pulling his lips down to maintain a straight line. "you can't scare me like this."
when your eyes adjust to the dim yellow lighting of the room, you can see how wildly unkempt his pink hair looks (probably from running his hands through it so often). his rings are twisted in all the wrong angles, his skin looks more dull than usual, and his voice carries a load of anxiety that's hard to overlook.
"i'm sorry, kuna." you tap the space next to you on the bed, inviting him to sit down. as soon as he does, you burrow your face into the crook of his shoulder, allowing him to give you a full body hug. he smells like home and comfort, his body heat warming you up in an instant.
"you… can't ever faint on me again.” a pause. “ever." his chest reverberates with each word, as you peek through your lashes and stare up at his chiselled jaw. "you got it?"
his smirk doesn't quite reach his eyes, and you pretend to not notice the dried tear stains on his jeans when he lands a shaky kiss on your forehead.
"got it."
december 23rd, college campus - he cancels all his plans for you
snow blankets the campus in pure white, the snow squishing underneath the soles of your shoes as you and sukuna make the trek across campus, hand in hand. the joyful expression on your face fades when you see yet another student being greeted by their parents in a parked car, cheerful chatter and warm hugs being exchanged in time for christmas.
sukuna notices how your body visibly stiffens in response, and squeezes his intertwined fingers with yours a little bit harder.
"you alright?" he mumbles, sparing you a sideways glance.
you seem troubled, caught between what to say and what to keep to yourself.
"pretty okay, yeah. i just-" you shrug your shoulders and smile, but it doesn't meet the usual glimmer in your eyes. "i just think i'm gonna miss you so much when you go back home in a few days for christmas."
it's a hard time for you, he knows. he remembers bits and pieces of your family history, but he never pushes, never judges. he's seen enough. felt the weight of your gaze when you see a mom excitedly hug her daughter, seen how your shoulders tense when the topic of going back home for christmas or new years comes up, witnessed how quickly you change the conversation when it veers too personally into the subject of family.
last christmas, you'd spent it with a close friend.
last christmas, he didn't know you.
more importantly, last christmas, he wasn't in love with you.
it's silent for a few moments as he trails behind you in the snow, the excitable chatter of strangers fading into the background as you pull up to your apartment. sukuna's brows furrow, deep in thought, and he pushes forward the door to let you in first before speaking.
"i'm not going home for christmas."
you blink up at him, confused.
"you what?"
"i'm not leaving."
you laugh, shaking your head.
"come on, kuna. you can't not go see your brother and parents."
he doesn't budge, eyes unblinking in that silent manner of 'try me'. you sigh.
"is this cause of what i said about missing you? look, babe, that's really sweet of you to worry but it won't be the first christmas i spend alone. and it won't be the last."
the door clicks behind you and you take off your scarf, hanging it on the doorstep. your fingers work deftly to take off your coat, sukuna's eyes trail your body as the fabric is smoothened out. the cashmere getting caught in the zipper as you struggle, and he wordlessly grabs your coat and pulls it off in one go.
"they'll survive without me."
unspoken in his answer is all the conflicting emotions in his head - i’ll worry about you too much. i’ll miss you more. i won’t be able to do anything without thinking about you, anyways.
"and i can survive without you, too." you bite back, before the regret rolls in.
you just hate the thought of being coddled, of someone taking pity on you over the holidays - it's too familiar, too practiced. sukuna's expression doesn't change but the slightest twitch of his jaw gives his true feelings away, and it feels like a stab in your stomach.
"i'm sorry. i'm really, really sorry for snapping at you kuna." you whisper, hugging him instantly. "i-i just meant..." you look up at him, desperate. "i don't want you to ditch your family for me."
he looks down at you and thinks of his family back home. but all the memories are in black and white, dark and dull in response to the imagination of you sitting in this apartment. alone. twinkling lights outside whilst you turn over yet another boring channel on the tv. barren trees. no music. drowning out the sounds of neighbors celebrating next door.
he'd rather die than let that happen.
"i'm not ditching them. just... delaying it. besides-" he smirks, squeezing your waist in comfort. "think they're fucking tired of seeing my face every few months."
you open your mouth to retort, but he doesn't let you.
"they'll get over it. they know... how much you mean to me."
your eyebrows raise in surprise, guilt dissipating into playful curiosity.
"oh, you told them about me?"
it's his turn to shift in discomfort, avoiding your gaze whilst not moving away from your warm embrace.
"we've been together for almost a year now. obviously i've talked about you."
"oohhhhh you love me soooo muchhhh-" you sing song, poking him in the chest. the tips of his ears turn red, and he ruffles your hair whilst still avoiding your gaze.
"do you ever shut up."
"mmm if you're gonna be stuck with me over christmas, you better get used to me talking."
"tell me about it."
"hey!" you pretend to be offended, but your heart is just bursting with affection for how quickly he's offered to spend the holidays with you. the same boy who squeezes your hand in the snow and helps you take off your cashmere coat when it gets stuck.
"we should get some christmas cookie batter to bake, hm?" you mutter, gesturing to the door again. he sits down on the couch and pulls you into his lap, closing his eyes in comfort as you laugh.
"don't make me regret staying here, brat."
march 3rd, the bath tub - he tells you he loves you
sukuna's always thought the confession would come in a dramatic manner.
valentine's day with a bouquet big enough to fill the living room. the emergency room of a hospital after someone gets hurt. new year's eve party on the rooftop with fireworks bursting up ahead in the night sky.
not a normal tuesday like today, where nothing's gone right.
it rains and he has no umbrella. his coach yells at him for fumbling in practice. his brain is fuzzy from the lack of sleep the day before. he mixes up his projects when presenting in class. he forgets the lunch you packed for him at home and has to settle for the cafeteria's sad excuse of a sandwich.
by the time he's dragging his tired body back to your shared house, it's 9pm.
he's exhausted, starving, and aggrieved beyond all measure. and it's as if everyone else can tell that he's in a sour mood, the dark clouds hanging over his head repelling anyone from trying to talk sense to him.
as he inserts the key into the door, he's surprised to see the lights on and the sound of someone humming whilst moving around in the kitchen.
you're standing over the kitchen stove, long hoodie and pyjama shorts, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you chop an onion. it smells like tomatoes and butter, there's a clean smelling candle being burnt in the middle of the room, and a quiet jazz song being played out loud from your phone.
his bag touches the floor carefully, and your eyes lift from the hot stove to his.
"kuna!!!"
you almost smear his jacket with the wooden spoon of tomato sauce in your hands, but he can't care less when your warm hands find his skin and you burrow his face into his skin. the stress and exhaustion from the day melts away at how blindly, how brightly you're smiling up at him, your vanilla and jasmine scent washing over him.
"i made your favorite. tomato sausage pasta. well, making it." you gesture to the messy kitchen. "after dinner, i was thinking we could watch a movie or take a bath?"
"a bath... sounds nice."
"good. you need it."
"watch it."
"sh... go change." you order, practically kicking him out. but it just makes him chuckle, retreating to the bedroom to change out of his daily clothes. the soft linen against his skin is almost as relaxing as the sight of you walking around the kitchen, content and lively.
"do you want to grate the cheese?"
"sure."
he swears you have a sixth sense for when he has a bad day. you don't over ask about his day, or push when he gives you a short answer, and you’re more than happy to fill the empty silences with anecdotes about your day. you playfully slap him when he tries to steal a bite from the pan, and easily slide him the dishes without him having to ask for it.
it's as if you know him inside and out.
"i'll wash the dishes." he offers immediately.
"then i'll draw the bath." you offer.
he sighs, knowing that you've had a long day as well.
"stop being difficult, i know you're tired too."
"you're worth being tired for."
that sentence spins around in his mind as he washes up, and it won't leave his head when he sinks into the hot water with you half an hour later. you scoot back so that your back touches his skin, your fingers lazily poking around the bath bomb fizzing in the water.
when he cranes his neck, he can see your wet hair framing your face, the hot steam leaving droplets of condensation down your neck. he wants to lean forward and kiss it, but he stops himself, instead choosing to wrap you in his arms.
"today fucking sucked." he admits, the sound of running water nearly masking his whisper.
"i figured." is all you say, gentle and accepting.
"you're the best part of today."
"thanks, kuna."
he says it without thinking, because it's so natural. like breathing air, like cooking with you at 9pm, like pulling you in for a hug in a bath tub.
"i love you."
you freeze in his hold, looking up at him in wonder.
you've known that he loves you, of course. he's shown you that every day, in little gestures and implicit messages, in how he never lets you walk by the side of the road facing the cars, or how his hands have a habit of finding yours in a crowded room.
but his admission - the three words spoken into the open air - make you choke on your words.
"i don't say it enough, but... i really love you." he adds, nervously fidgeting as he blinks down at you, waiting for your response. pure panic and nerves start to settle in at your silence. had he done something wrong? ruined the moment? should he have waited for sometime grander-
his spiral is interrupted by your glossy lips on his. you taste like cherry and cinnamon sugar.
"oh, kuna... i love you so much. you know that, right? so much that i can't express it." you mumble, all dazed and in awe. he wishes he could take a photo of how you look to him at that moment.
"okay, now you're doing too much." he teases.
"leave it to you to ruin a sweet moment." you pout, good naturedly.
"i'll make it up to you." he teases back, resting his chin on your bare shoulders. "with many more moments after this."
"... can you say it again?" you look up at him, hopeful and loving. it's warm and safe. in here, and everywhere.
"i love you."
and it’s all you could ask for.
a/n: ahhh my first time writing for sukuna! i've been really into the 4 times X, 1 time Y trope so wanted to give this a go. my comfort zone is 100% writing nanami so branching out feels really scary but i worked hard on this and i'm so glad this is out in the world!!! hopefully you guys liked it too haha bc it's quite difficult from what i'm used to.
ᯓ★ likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ᯓ★
summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.
genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major
word count: 33k (oops)
note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu
jjk masterlist
It began at one of the English department get-togethers.
Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.
The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.
You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.
Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.
There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
He looked familiar. His eyes were a deep amethyst, his smile was soft and kind. His dark and shaggy hair was tied behind his head in a small bun, and his ears were adorned with multiple piercings. Although many at Oxford, especially the men, tried to appear as blank as usual, he seemed apt and content with going against the stuffy and old notions.
You must have seemed confused because the man stuttered as he introduced himself.
“I’m Suguru,” he restarted, his hand leaving his side as he extended it to shake yours, “I think we had the same English survey course last semester.”
Your confusion melted away into a wide smile as you shook his hand, his own eyes crinkling around the edges as he grinned back, letting out a breath of relief as you nodded insistently, shaking your head at your own self.
“Right, right, Suguru! I remember you!” You exclaimed, setting your cup down to the side as you watched him tuck a strand of loose hair behind his ear, “You sat a little bit in front of me, right?”
His head ducked down momentarily as he chukked, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he nodded.
“I did,” he chuckled slightly, “Right in the line of fire for when Howard needed to pick on someone.”
Your lips quirk up slightly as you nod, remembering how the professor you work for now used to terrorize your class and quiz random students on particular syllables and grammatical imperfections in the reading they were supposed to have done.
The class was small, as were most major-specific courses you were taking. Although you didn’t have many of your friends in the class, you had gotten a good sense of who was in there and who Dr. Howard preferred to pick on. Suguru, for the most part, did the reading and did his work, so he came out unscathed compared to some of the other students. He sat near the front with some of his own friends, and you had talked to him in passing a couple of times when the class as a whole would band together to compare comments on assignments. He was kind, from what you remembered, which is probably why you felt your shoulders growing less tense the more you two talked.
“That’s her style,” you say, shrugging as you fiddle with your fingers. “It took a while to get used to it,” you admit. Suguru rolls his eyes at your humility, remembering clearly just how much Dr. Howard favored you, but he doesn’t say anything as he lets you continue, “I don’t know if you’ve had Creemer yet, but he’s worse with his cold calls and isn’t half as nice.”
“I have him right now for rhetoric and grammar,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head in dismay, “He’s…sadistic, I think.”
You giggle, nodding feverishly at the statement as you recall your past couple of classes with the hellish professor, an infamous name for many English majors and someone that you try to avoid at all costs if possible.
The party, or gathering, as it said on the invitation, drones on in the background as you look around to see if anybody is looking in your direction. Most of the time, you can do what you want, but seeing that Dr. Howard had warned you before tonight that somebody from the department might want to swarm you to ask questions that you most likely didn’t have answers to, had put you on edge.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, motioning to the rest of the people with a knowing glint as you politely smile, shrugging your shoulders as your lips press tightly together. Whether it be your shy nature or how you preferred smaller crowds, it must’ve been evident on your face that you weren’t necessarily having the most amount of fun.
“I am,” you answer, wincing at the way your voice sounded warbled, “I’m trying to make the most of these opportunities, I guess.”
Suguru’s head dipped in understanding, taking a sip of his drink as he bit the inside of his cheek, leaning in slightly as he lowered his voice.
“These things drag on for a bit, though, yeah? I’m feeling my fingers prune from how long I’ve held this glass.”
You let out a sigh of relief, sharing the same sentiment as the two of you share a knowing look.
“I…I, um, I heard that Howard chose you to research with her, though, right? That’s gotta be pretty cool,” Suguru asked after a beat, bringing you back to the conversation as his head tilted slightly, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks as you swallowed. He seemed kind, not asking the question bitterly as some other people have.
You nodded again, trying to contain your smile as you leaned against the stone pillar next to you. Letting out a small hum, you swallow again, trying to scope out what sort of place he was coming from.
“It is,” you answered, biting on the inside of your cheek as you were still reeling from being selected from such a wide pool of applicants and such a rigorous interview process to work on her next paper analyzing More’s work through a modern lens, “It’s…strenous, sometimes, but I’m having a lot of fun working with her,” you fidgeted with your fingers, “So yeah, it’s pretty cool.” You say sheepishly.
Suguru smiled at your hidden enthusiasm, the tip of his boot nudging something on the ground. He went to usher you to continue before his eye caught something behind your shoulder, his eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise as his smile grew even wider, his hand raising in a wave.
“Sorry,” he apologetically muttered, and you craned your neck around to see what it was, or rather who it was that Suguru had seen, “I think my friend just arrived.”
That’s when you felt your breathing stop.
The bustling group of students and faculty members almost seemed to part theatrically for the man walking towards the two of you, but you couldn’t even blame them.
He stuck out like a sore thumb, with his icy white hair and strikingly beautiful eyes. His lengthy frame made him nearly a head taller than even the tallest man in the room, and his wide shoulders helped him wade through the bodies as he navigated to his friend. His face seemed stoic, bordering on bored, but you couldn’t help but widen your eyes in shock at seeing the most devastatingly gorgeous man to ever exist. He adjusted his glasses over the bridge of his nose, his lips moving in quiet apologies as he tried to move through the people without bumping into them.
You suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that it had been days since you had last had a good night's sleep and that the bags under your eyes were most likely even more evident in the dim lighting of the old hall, and how your sweater was lumpy from being shoved in the back of your closet for so long. You swallow thickly as Suguru quickly excused himself as he stepped away and walked a bit away to hug the stranger, exchanging some words with each other as you stood awkwardly to the side.
You watched them silently as they talked for a little bit more before Suguru stepped away, his hand on his friend's back as he, for some horrifying reason, seemed to guide him towards where you were stiffly standing as the two of you made eye contact before you became aware of the way your eyeballs felt in your socket and how heavy your tongue was in your mouth.
When Suguru finally pulled away from the modern-day Adonis, you felt like a creeper and a loner as you wondered whether or not to leave or stand in the corner while they talked, but ever the kind person that he was, Suguru led the man by the back to where the two of you were with a wide smile on his face.
“Sorry about that,” Suguru abashedly apologized, chuckling deeply as he rubbed the back of his neck, “But this is my friend, Satoru,” he said brightly, pushing the man a little harshly towards you as you stared at him silently.
The man, Satoru, gives you a tight-lipped smile, nodding once in your direction as he looks around, looking uncomfortable and shifty. Suguru rolled his eyes, sighing deeply as he patted his friend's back.
You grinned back, swallowing the spit in your mouth as you felt him stare at you once he was done looking at the room, your cheeks heating up. You felt his eyes drift over your outfit, at your posture, and the way your hands were clasped tightly together. This stranger assessed the way you swayed slightly, awkwardly, not knowing how to fill the silence as you tapped the tip of your battered shoes on the ground. When he was done, his chin lifted again, his stare lingering on your blinking face as you glanced between him and Suguru, waiting for somebody to say something before you imploded and left with the lingering scent of your vanilla body spray.
Seeing that he was fine with checking you out, you took the time to do the same. He seemed like one of the generational students of the school, the ones whose parents and grandparents and cousins and siblings all came and went and made something important with their lives. They weren’t hard to detect, especially him, with his steamed jumper and his creased pants. His leather shoes were shining back at you, and though his hair was somewhat messy, it seemed to be classily messy, unlike what you and some other students would call freely messy.
“I force him to come to these things with me,” Suguru explained, but you could barely hear him over the rhythm of heartbeats in your ear as you tried to fly, appreciate the man a few feet in front of you, “Our friend Shoko sometimes comes, but she had things to do tonight.”
The man’s nose wrinkled ever so slightly, his brows drawing tightly together as he glanced at his friend with a look.
“I had things to do too,” he muttered, his voice deep as you felt your heart stupidly tumble at the sounds.
Suguru snorted, shaking his head as he shrugged indifferently.
“Sure,” Suguru replied sarcastically and glanced at you, his brow slightly raised at the way you had gone silent, his lips quirking slightly when he noticed the way you couldn’t stop staring at his friend, not voicing anything as his hand on Satoru’s shoulder loosened, “Just act like you want to be here for twenty minutes, yeah?”
You bit your teeth into your cheek, a finger raising slightly as you pointed to the newcomer's face.
“I like your glasses,” you said brightly, your smile gentle as you fidget with your own, watching the way his striking eyes moved over to you again, squinting slightly as his hand raised upwards, as if he had forgotten that his glasses were even there, “They frame your face really well.” Your head tilts a little as you try to place something, “Where’d you get them? If, if you don’t mind me asking. Mine is so old and dingy, and the rims are basically glued on, and I’ve only had them for a few years.”
“Erm, well, thank you,” Satoru says stiffly, not used to the direct attention and compliments, his cheeks slightly dusted with pink as Suguru watches his friend struggle for words, taking the glasses off as he turns them to the side, trying to read the logo, “These are, erm, from Cartier. But I usually wear contacts, anyway.”
You let out a startled laugh, not a stranger to hearing students at this place don expensive items, but this being the first time you’ve seen one of them bashful about it.
You nod, your smile still there, softer as you take in his slightly awkward nature and let him put the glasses back on before you continue.
“Contacts are more practical,” you agree, even though you’ve always had a phobia of things touching your eyes and would never wear contacts unless somebody forced you, shrugging as you say, “But I’ve always appreciated the look of glasses.”
Satoru gnaws on his lips, nodding quietly as Suguru starts talking about his friend's major (biochemistry, you came to find out), and how long they’ve known each other, but you could only feel your stupid feelings when Suguru stayed, his friend included, and talked with you for the rest of the evening.
That was your sophomore year.
Nearly two years passed after befriending Suguru alongside his small group. He introduced you to Shoko after that night, swearing up and down that the two of you were destined to be near each other. And we weren’t wrong, not in the slightest. You two girls bonded strangely fast, as if you were twin flames that were being fanned out. Suguru and Satoru seemed to mirror the two of you, but the group functioned as a whole, for the most part. You spent so many nights over at their dorms that you could walk around blindfolded and still find your way to the others with no issue. It was fun, it was what you had dreamt of for so long. It was something that you were fine with, more than content with, ending your university career in a couple of months.
Well, everything for the most part, you could consider it as such if it wasn’t for your debilitating and soul-crushing feelings for the stranger you met that night.
It’s been four semesters, and you still don’t think Gojo Satoru has a clue. Which, in all honesty, is for the better.
Although his stoic nature spares nobody, it feels as though you're always on the worst end of it. With his lingering stares that seem to border on questioning why you were even there whenever he sees you, to the way he grows dim and quiet around you, it feels like you’re actively attempting to hurt yourself the more you fall in love with the little things you hadn’t noticed the day prior.
Even worse, you know deep down that such feelings are most likely, under this sun and every other universe, with most certainty and heavy grief, unrequited.
But you’re fine keeping it down.
You were fine until recently.
—
“I’m debating switching majors.”
Shoko declared from the couch, her legs hanging off the side, knocking occasionally on your shoulders as you crane your neck back on the cushion form where you were seated on the ground to look at her upside down.
“To what?”
She shrugged, rubbing at her eyes as she held her neuroanatomy textbook in one hand, her phone in the other as she scrolled through the different majors Oxford offered, as if she wasn’t a semester away from graduating.
“Film?” She read out, and you snorted, rolling your eyes at the prospect of Shoko going into film, “Hm…maybe art history?”
“Gave up on the med school dream?” Suguru quips from the other side of the couch, knowing fully that Shoko was just going on another one of her tangents as she shifted slightly to shove him harshly with her socked foot.
“I’m sure your counselor wouldn’t mind,” you reply, looking at her as she glares, her eyes falling back to her phone as she peers at the screen. She looked boredly a little bit before her eyes flitted upwards slightly, squinting as she read the new notification.
“Satoru said he’s going to be here in a few minutes,” she muttered, reading the next message, “And that he wants you,” she nudged Suguru with her foot again to motion that it was him that Satoru was referencing in the text, “To move to your bed so that he can do his work on his side of the couch.”
Suguru peeked up from his doom scrolling to look at Shoko, his eyes narrowed in a glare as he let out a huff of annoyance.
“His side?”
Shoko shrugged, her knee knocking on the side of your head as you knock it back, the book you were reading resting in your hands as you listened to Suguru mutter distastefully about how this was his dorm and that Satoru had no right claiming his couch, but you heard him shuffle to his feet nonetheless.
You tried not to show any peek of interest when the infamous name was called out, but it was hard not to. It had been two grueling years of mulling over your childish crush, yet the sound of his name could still send pulses to your veins that you were sure were minor heart attacks.
Because it was Gojo Satoru. You wanted to bang your head against the coffee table just hearing it.
Truth be told, you weren’t a stranger to having crushes. It was normal, it was human. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself when you were sprawled out on your bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as you tried not to think about the way his fingers ever so slightly grazed your wrist when he handed you some chopsticks earlier at the restaurant.
But your crushes came few and far between, and you preferred keeping it that way. Seeing that you were too terrified to ever admit them, and the few, very few times you have, they’ve backfired horrifically, you try not to catch feelings as much as possible. But there was something about Gojo, something beyond reason, that pulled you to him.
At first, you bargained. You tried convincing yourself that it was just his appearance that was drawing you in, his suave looks that made people’s heads turn whenever he entered a room. But you have seen him at four in the morning with his old band tees (a sight that still made you swoon), with his hair crusted with glitter and his eyes pink with eyeshadow as Shoko attempted to put him in drag. Even then, he was insanely gorgeous, so you knew it had to be beyond that.
When you had finally accepted that it was a mind-numbing and life-ending crush that you were feeling towards him, you finally gave in and decided to admire the tall brute from afar. It helped that the two of you had gotten somewhat closer over the past two years, but out of everyone in the group, he was the one you talked to the least. In your defense, he didn’t have much to say to anybody, and that was just his nature. He spent most of his time studying and researching, and the other time watching, observant as other people gossiped. It wasn’t his forte, and nobody pushed him.
So you took in his quietness and his stoicism, appreciated his god-like looks and his overwhelming presence. That was fine.
What made it even worse was that he was so unattainably perfect in other ways that your crush festered into something that made you scream into your pillows and throw your balls of clothes at the wall as you wallowed in self-pity.
Everyone at this damned university was intelligent, and you had made amends with them early on. But you loved men who were smart, guys who could actually hold a page down and dissect it and make the most of it. And worst of all, Gojo Satoru was probably the most intellectual person you have ever met, and will ever meet. It seemed like his memory was photographic, his mind working twenty thousand times faster than the regular brain as he computed formulas and equations at speeds that you couldn’t fathom. He made biochemistry seem easy, something that you sometimes felt guilty for not pursuing. And sure, it didn’t help that you were on the other side with your texts about Russian classics and books diving deep into the restoration period, but even Shoko, who could rival Gojo at times, would begrudgingly admit under her breath just how stupidly genius he was.
Therefore, when you put those things together, his charming looks, his bookish self, his brooding structure, and just everything else, it made him unattainably perfect.
And that’s when you get the man you’ve been hopelessly in love with since the moment you saw him at that wretched party that wasn’t a party.
So, when Shoko read off his texts, there was good reason why she looked at the top of your head, a knowing look in her eyes as she playfully nudges you again, watching as you threw her a dark glare to just keep it down seeing that she was the only other soul who knew, despite you trying your best to hide it, about your feelings towards her other friend.
“Did you hear that Toji is graduating a semester late?” Suguru asked, leaning back against his pillows, his long legs strewn along his bed as he chewed on some gum.
You and Shoko both hummed, not looking up from your respective tasks, having found this information out weeks in advance.
Suguru groaned in annoyance, his chest vibrating with the noise as you snorted, rolling your eyes as he threw a small pillow at your head. It bounced off the side of your face, but you didn’t look up from the page you were on, too engrossed to hear the door behind you click open and heavy footsteps suddenly thudding through the dorm.
You shuffled against the couch, your back feeling stiff as you tried to get comfortable, not knowing that the man of your dreams was moving around somewhere behind you as he hung his coat up (vintage leather, something you found out as he grumbled about getting it wet when Shoko and Suguru insisted on walking in the rain once), kicked off his shoes, and slung his bag around as Shoko craned her neck to see what he was doing.
“Hey,” Shoko called out, and your eyes widened slightly when you heard a familiar voice grunt back a tired greeting, trying not to look as your ears suddenly sharpened to pick up on the sound of him pulling on his sweatshirt as he rounded the couch, standing at the opposite end as he plopped his backpack on the cushions.
You finally allowed yourself to peek over, your eyes following his figure upwards until they landed on his face, and your fists balled in frustration at how pretty he was even when he was simply existing.
Gojo sent you a small, tight-lipped and courteous nod, polite and curt as he looked between you and Shoko, glancing back at the bed where Suguru was lying, his fingers barely lifting from his phone as he gave his childhood best friend a lazy three-fingered wave.
“Why’re you here?” His blunt question was directed at Shoko, something that held no bite but mere wondering as he situated himself on the soft cushions, his large hands feeling around his bag as he opened up the zipper to get his laptop.
“I thought that it was allowed,” Shoko replied dryly, “Apologies.”
You chuckle softly, flipping the page, trying not to let his signature cologne distract you from the words in front of you.
“How was your lab?” Suguru asked, sounding monotone as his thumb swiped on the screen.
You watched as Gojo gave him a glare, his nose wrinkling, something he often did when he was frustrated but didn't want to ruin his outward appearance, and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hair was messy with goggle indents lining the upper half of his face.
“An offense to my intelligence,” Gojo grumbled, his face illuminated by the glow of his laptop as he clicked around a little bit, “I can’t believe some people have made it this far.”
You flipped another page, not fully having read the contents of the last one, but in an attempt to seem indifferent, tried to keep up with your regular reading pace as if anybody was keeping track.
Watching as he riffles through his bag again, you know, almost like clockwork, what he’s going to pull out. His routine is one that you’ve familiarized yourself with despite your best judgment, and you know that what comes next are his glasses.
Glasses are normal. You have your own pair that you only wear for lectures and outings, but forgo them for times like this because they sit a little too heavy on your nose. But his glasses are something else.
They elevate his face ever so slightly, but so much so that it makes you want to keel over and scream. They accentuate his perfect nose with the perfect crook and his freckles that sometimes sit just beneath the frames. He looks even more dashing, if that was even possible, with the way he looks up sometimes, and the lenses make his eyes seem even more blue.
He took them off for labs and put them somewhere safe. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how truly stunning this man really was.
Gojo unfolded the two prongs, holding them up to a source of light as his nose wrinkled again.
Smudges.
You watch silently as he dives back into the bag, his long fingers searching through his pockets for something you knew you always kept on hand for yourself and deep down, for him.
After a few seconds of not finding the microfiber cloth that you both silently cherished, you gave in, pulling your own bag towards you as you unzipped the smaller pocket, pulling it out stealthily and motioning for Shoko to hand it to Gojo.
He took it, his face going so far to relax momentarily as he went to clean the lenses, his head nodding once in quiet appreciation in your direction as you allowed yourself a nod in return.
Shoko looked at you with a raised brow, and you chose to hide behind your book.
“Was it Lainey?” Suguru asked, looking over at his friend, the name piquing your interest as you cast a quizzical look at Shoko, but she shrugged, watching Gojo as his expression soured. He handed you back your little cloth, muttering a thanks under his breath as his bitter gaze found Suguru, as if he was cursing him silently for bringing up the sensitive subject.
“What do you think?” He grumbled out, his right eye almost twitching as his fingers stretched out, typing something quickly as Suguru huffed out a laugh, noting how you and Shoko were both confused, and his smile only grew.
“You didn’t tell them?” Suguru asked, a gleam in his eyes as he shuffled to sit upwards, his back resting on the headboard, “Oh, this is class. Do you two know Lainey? Lainey Andrews?”
You cast a look at Shoko, your lips pursing as your eyes squinted, trying to recall the familiar name.
“The ginger?” Shoko asked, her head tilting to the side, her hair falling around her shoulder, “Pixie cut?”
Suguru nodded, his shoulders raising as your brows furrowed before your mouth slightly fell open when your head bobbed quickly, snapping as you matched the face to the name.
“Oh, Lainey!” You exclaimed, “She’s really pretty,” you added, remembering her bright green eyes and the spattered freckles that made her look like a painting, “She’s also crazy smart - she’s double majoring in bio and poli sci."
Shoko laughed softly under her breath, giving you a small look because this was somewhat typical of you to know random people, with nearly everyone on campus having had a conversation with you at some point during your four years here.
Suguru raised a brow, clicking his tongue as he pointed his phone at Gojo, seeming like he was already anticipating one of his sly comments.
“She’s also just crazy,” Gojo muttered, looking above his laptop, above his wispy lashes at you and then to Shoko, “She spent half of the lab playing with my hair.”
Your book almost fell out of your hands as Shoko sat up with a barking out a stunned laugh, your hands mirroring each other as they flew to cover your mouths in shock, and Suguru nodded again, his eyes wide as he clicked his tongue.
Another thing about Gojo? He hated being touched. Despised hugs, only suffered through quick handshakes, and shuddered at the thought of someone touching his face. You’ve seen the way he pulls back whenever someone approaches him with open arms, seen the way he tries to brush people off of him. He can tolerate Suguru and his insistent bear-hugs from time to time, can sometimes allow Shoko to swat a fly away from his face, and for some reason, doesn’t grumble whenever you try to fix his ties before events, but whenever a stranger or someone he isn’t close to attempts to touch him, he grows reclusive for the rest of the day.
“I told her to stop, too,” he adds, his big frame seeming to grow in frustration as he thinks back to it, “It was only after I had to shove her off that she got the hint. I forgot my disinfectant too, so I was just…” he shuddered, his eyes fluttering shut as he shifted uncomfortably, and you watched him let out a restrained exhale as he dropped it and went back to work.
But, after studying him for as long as you have, you know that he probably washed his hands and his face a couple of times after that. You know that he also wouldn’t feel complete without some sanitizing wipes and a good shower, so you do the closest thing to that and fish out a hand sanitizer from your bag, an item that you refused to move around without due to your own cleanly nature, which was ironically something else that you and Gojo silently shared, and passed it to him, knowing that he was probably itching till he was able to shower again.
Your friends sometimes joked that you had a Mary Poppins bag, but it came in handy for times like this.
Gojo’s ears perked up at the sound of your rumaging, his eyes almost brightening at the sight of the hand sanitizer, and you pinched it between two fingers before throwing it his way, watching as he effortlessly caught it and began spraying his large palms with the lavender scent.
“Thank you,” he mumbled again, his voice slightly losing the edge it had from before as he passed it back to you, and you smiled, nodding once before you zipped it back up.
You tried to ignore the way Shoko was staring at you.
“Lucky us that we don’t have labs, huh?” Suguru called out, throwing another tiny pillow in your direction, but this time you dodged it, moving your head down slightly so that it would miss. You huff a bit, looking over at Suguru as he shrugged, winking as he went back to his phone.
Suguru was another English major, the reason the two of you got familiar in the first place. He liked to say that the two of you balanced out Gojo and Shoko, but you just thought that it pushed you even further down the list of potential people your pathetic crush could be interested in.
There were a couple of things that you had come to terms with if you were going to crush on him. One was that you had to know in full certainty that nothing was going to come from it. You weren’t going to risk the friendship, no matter how small, by going and confessing and having everything be messy. Two, was that you weren’t going to feel, or at least try not to feel, jealous if he entertained the idea of pursuing something with someone else. And three, was that Gojo Satoru was so incredibly picky when it came to potential partners, that it might be impossible for even the most amazing people to snag a chance.
“I don’t know,” you mumbled, eyes squinting as you tried to make out what one of the characters was saying, “You didn’t have to do that project with Armie.”
Suguru hummed, his brow raising as he thought back to your shared class and the project that paired you up with people you didn’t know, Suguru getting the better end of the stick while you were stuck with someone who insisted on plugging the project prompt into a generator.
“Didn’t you report him?” Satoru asked, his eyes still trained on his work, but the question was now directed to you given the fact that he had sat in on a couple of your tirades in which you would drone on about how the boy was nearly about to graduate and still couldn’t cite sources when he, in one of his brief moments of providing comments, would reiterate to report it to the professor.
You sank into your spot, giving him a suppressed look, one where your eyes met before you shared a glimpse with Suguru. Your friend rolled his eyes from across the room, shaking his head in annoyance as Satoru looked between the two of you.
“She said that she didn’t want to ‘be a bitch’,” Suguru said, restating the words as his fingers move up and down in the air, quoting the statement you had said to him moments before you had to present the assignment in front of the class, shushing him as you pushed him away, insisting that even though you had done the entire project on your own, that it wasn’t worth the hassle to make a report with the professor and potentially have someone out for you, “I said otherwise, but she,” Suguru gave you a pointed look, “Said she’d cut my hair if I made it a ‘big deal’.”
Satoru’s eyes lingered on the side of your face, and you purposefully kept your head ducked and the book closer, so close that it was nearly touching your nose, as you tried to shield away their judging eyes in embarrassment.
“You need to stop caring about what other people think,” Shoko said as she shoved you with her knee, this time just a little bit harder because she knows you and knows what you hide in the fear of making others think something of you that wasn’t good, “I really think your professor would’ve heard your case if you made it.”
You groaned, swatting at her leg with your book as you shuffled away, backing into another corner as you tried to readjust to the new position.
“Yeah,” Suguru added, resting his phone momentarily on his chest, “I think it would help if you were more selfish.”
You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at the prospect.
“I just hate confrontation,” you murmur defensively, gnawing on your bottom lip as you flip a page, “And, plus…you have to give me some credit - at least I told him that he was being frustrating,” you say, pretending to ignore them, your eyes re-reading the same word over and over again until you were confident that they were going to drop this subject, this horse that they’ve beaten multiple times, one that ended with you assuring them that you were going to speak up more until it all looped back again to times like this.
“Speaking of confrontation, did you ever get a refund for that ticket?”
There was a beat of silence before you let out a frustrated groan when Shoko reminded you of the one task you had forgotten to do in the past couple of days, your head falling to your knees as your palms jammed into your eyes.
“No, oh my god, you’re so right,” your voice is muffled as you bookmark your page, your fists clenching at your own mistake as your eyes crack open, “Oh my god, I can’t believe I forgot to follow up on that!”
Shoko chuckled, rolling her eyes as Suguru and Satoru shared a look, them now sharing confusion as you writhe on the floor at the thought of knowing you could’ve saved a couple of bucks had you not forgotten to call up the school of drama help center for accidentally buying an extra ticket to the showing of The Beggar’s Opera. And, seeing that it was Tuesday and just days before the theatre program, one that needed funds, was about to perform, the deadline for your refund was most likely up.
“So does that mean you need me to come with you next Saturday?” Shoko offered, her lips quirking up slightly as your head shot up, nodding quickly as your hands flew to hers, shaking them feverishly.
“Would you? Would you really?” You ask, and her laughter grows, shoving you off playfully by pushing your forehead back to where you were sitting.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says with a sigh, winking at you before she goes back to her phone, and you settle back in your seat as you gnaw on your lips, thinking back to how on earth you could have possibly messed up so bad when you so usually only buy one ticket for yourself, but you push it aside, thankful that your dearest friend was at least going to make use of it.
You, Suguru, and Shoko shared a small laugh and went on with the conversation, but you heard a low, deep noise, something only you could hear, as Suguru and Shoko returned to bickering about which major Shoko was best suited for.
The sound made you glance up briefly, looking over the pages to see Gojo still staring at you, his lashes fluttering before he snapped back to it and went back to doing his work.
Minutes turned into a few hours, and the room was filled with the occasional story and laughter, but mostly the four of you worked together on different assignments, sometimes looking up as you would recall something from the past couple of days that you were saving to tell them in person.
It seemed like everything was going smoothly until Suguru got a notification on his phone, his face lighting up as he swiveled out of his bed, jumping onto the floor as he tugged his shoes on, not explaining anything as the three of you glanced up, waiting.
“My food’s here,” he said over his shoulder, practically gleaming as he cocked his head in Shoko’s direction, “Come down with me, will you? I need some help.”
You scoff, smiling to yourself as you try to imagine just how much food he had ordered, but careful not to be too loud because you knew he would be sharing it with you all after some choice complaints were heard.
Shoko grumbles, but obliged, lifting up from the couch as she stretches, nudging you playing with the tip of her foot as she throws a pillow your way, walking towards Suguru as he holds the door open for her, the two of them calling out some brief goodbye as they head down to the lobby.
When the door clicks behind them, you’re suddenly aware of the fact that it’s only you and Satoru left, and you let your stare linger on the wall for a bit before you look away, suddenly sheepish when you catch his glance from his seat on the couch.
He clears his throat, eyes flickering from his screen to the book in your lap, the highlighters strewn around you, sticky notes sticking out from between the pages, and he points a finger at it.
“What’re you reading?”
Your brows raise slightly, and your chin ducks down to the book, and you sit up a little straighter as you place a bookmark in the middle of your page you lifting the cover, letting him read the cover as he adjusts his glasses over his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, his voice holding a lithe of acknowledgement as he slowly sets his laptop to the side, shifting slightly closer, “I’ve read this, I think.”
Your head tilts a little, lips quirking a little bit at the sides with a small smile as you look back at the cover.
“You’ve read The Norton Anthology, Volume C before?”
His mouth parts, closing it before he gapes at you, and your grin turns into a big smile, waving it away as you shake your head, shrugging at his stammering expression. He’s so cute when caught in a lie.
“I’m only kidding,” you swear, setting your book down, your knees pulled towards your chest, arms wrapping around your legs, “I’m sure you’ve had to read something like this for one of your previous classes.”
“You’re bothersome,” he murmurs, but his voice holds no bite as you let out another barking laugh, rolling your eyes as he tries not to smile, “I’m only trying to be polite.”
You purse your lips together, giving him a questioning look as he shoots you one back.
“I didn’t know politeness was in your artillery,” you quip, and he scoffs, moving his glasses upwards as he rubs at his tired eyes, resting backwards into the cushions as his legs part, and you try not to let your eyes linger on his thighs.
“I have a reserve for choice people,” he says, opening his eyes back as he looks back at you, yawning as he moves on, “How was your presentation?”
Your smile falters for a second as your stare turns questioning, chewing on your lips as it turns into something sweeter, something smitten because he’s asking about the presentation you had mentioned once in passing the last weekend you had hung out, stressing over your slides and sources, and trying to seem nonchalant as you finger traces little patterns on the floor.
“It was good,” you tell him, trying not to seem too prideful as you murmur, “My professor said it was exactly what he was looking for.”
His face shifts, no longer annoyed as you try not to appear bashful, but his teeth shine as his rosy cheeks pull upwards as he gives you one of those smiles that makes you feel warm and happy and giddy.
“Yeah?” He asks, shifting a little bit as he waved his teasingness off, rolling your eyes as you groan, nodding exaggeratedly as you go back to organizing your highlighters and pens, but he seems intent on pushing this: “Didn’t you say it was the hardest assignment of the class?”
You look up at him from above your lashes, trying not to smile again as you shrug indifferently, done with arranging your stationery based on colors as your knees knock together, throwing a pillow his way that he effortlessly catches.
“I mean, everyone told me that it was really, really hard, so-” But you’re cut off by the door swinging open, and the two of you crane your necks around to see Shoko and Suguru arguing over something irrelevant, food nestled in their hands as they close the door behind them with a slam.
They start telling you two about the delivery fee and the outrageousness that one of the containers had tipped over, but you’re still busy thinking about how Satoru remembered something so trivial, giving them quiet hums as they spread out the food on the small coffee table, and trying to act normal.
Like you have for the past two years.
—
The week passed as it usually does, with papers, readings, and assignments that needed to be completed at an unmanageable rate.
You had expected the usual and mundane things, and for the most part, that’s what came your way. Nights spent in each other's rooms as you finish up your work, spliced with moments where you would all talk, days filled with going to lectures and walking around campus till you found a quiet study spot. Things that you could predict and plan for.
For the most part.
Another thing that your little group would occasionally do was meet up at the end of the week at one of the pubs around campus, most of them serving mediocre food and somewhat better drinks, and offer you all a time to reconvene after a usually stressful couple of days.
The pub was small and quaint, but you enjoyed the warmth and laughter that muddled together to make the ambiance somewhat private. Either Suguru or Shoko would arrive there early and try to secure the usual spot at the booth near the end of the establishment, seeing that either of them didn’t have classes on Fridays, while the other three would meet up outside of Satoru’s biophysical chemistry class and walk there together.
Which is why you found yourself back on that Friday, sitting next to Shoko, settling into your seat as she clambered in after you. Suguru almost pushes Satoru in, impatient to sit down and get back to talking, and you watch as the white-haired man sits in front of you, his hands clasped together as he stares at the wood-grain of the table.
“How were classes?” Shoko finally asks, looking between you and Satoru as she takes a sip from her drink.
You sigh, shrugging as your fingers play with the bottom of your cup, the condensation slipping down as you rub at your tired eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” you say, drinking some water as you wipe at the corner of your lips, “My professor could’ve ended the class, like, twenty minutes earlier than he did.”
She nods solemnly, patting your thigh in solidarity as she passes the bowl of crisps towards you, nudging you to take one to help settle your stomach after having back-to-back classes, knowing how hangry it made you.
“Is this the professor who needs you to see a classical play?” Suguru asked, taking some of the snack as his arms crossed on top of the table, leaning in slightly as you licked some of the salt from your lips, nodding.
“Yeah,” you heave another sigh, elbowing Shoko as you continue, “Which is why I’m seeing Beggar’s Opera next week. I mean, the theatre program did a couple of Shakespeare ones earlier this semester, but…ugh, I just can’t watch another performance of Romeo and Juliet.” You murmur with a groan, resting your chin on the palm of your hand as Suguru hums in agreement.
“You don’t like Shakespeare?”
Your eyes shift over to the man in front of you who asked the question.
Your brows furrow slightly in the middle, lips pulling into a small pout as you shake your head, playing with the ring of water your drink had left as you itch your nose, trying not to focus too hard on the pretty pink color on Gojo’s cheeks because of the slightly toasty feel of the room.
“I do,” you say slugishly, “It’s just that when the only work of his that tends to be popular isn’t The Tempest, I get a little annoyed.”
Suguru snorts, shaking his head as his fingers wag at you.
“That’s not even nearly his best stuff,” he argues, and you roll your eyes, your head tilting badly in annoyance after knowing what this was going to lead to, “I can’t believe you still think that it outweighs Richard II.”
Satoru and Shoko’s eyes bounce between you and your ink-haired friend.
“I’d rather die on the hill of petty magic versus royal family drama,” You quip back, your brow slightly raised.
Suguru huffed, shaking his head in dismay as he lightly shoved your foot underneath the table, a small smile on both your faces.
“Is Tempest the one with the shipwreck?” Gojo asks, his head tilting slightly as his glasses lean on his nose bridge. You nod, grinning at the fact that someone in the group was able to identify such a classic piece of literary work.
You open your mouth to agree, but Suguru beats you to it.
“How do you know that?” He glances sideways at his friend, his brow raised in slight shock as Shoko snorts.
Gojo shrugs, his elbows resting on the table as the fabric of his sweater tightens around his arms, making him look delectable and otherworldly. You have to tear your eyes away from it before it becomes too noticeable.
“We went to the same secondary school,” Gojo argues, saying it as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, “I paid attention…clearly more than others,” he adds under his breath, causing you to drop your hand to your mouth to hide the satisfied grin from when Suguru deflated in slight embarrassment.
“Oh, speaking of blast from the past,” Shoko shuffles, looking at her phone screen as if suddenly remembering something, “Vi’s coming back for break.”
You watch as Gojo and Suguru stop their silent bickering by messing with each other's stuff as they look up to Shoko. Suguru’s thin brow shoots upwards, his mouth turning into a surprised line as Gojo stares blankly, an unreadable expression on his face as you poke Shoko’s thigh, shaking your head in confusion.
“Who?” You murmur, your eyes squinting as Shoko looks at you, her mouth slightly dropping as she also remembers that you didn’t grow up with them.
“Vivienne March,” Suguru explains, beating someone once again to explain something because he could never hold onto a piece of information for longer than three seconds if he knows that somebody in his vicinity doesn’t know it, “She went to school with us for, what? Five, six years?” He looks between Gojo and Shoko, and they both nod, Shoko unlocking her phone as she goes to pull up the girl's instagram to show you what she looks like, “She’s his ex,” he murmurs as if secretly, pointing at his friend next to him as you feel something in your gut shift, but he clearly doesn’t tell because he leaves that point entirely.
“But I thought she preferred to stay in America till her spring semester was over?” He asks, confused, waiting for you to be done looking, as he waits for Shoko to explain it.
You take her phone gingerly, looking at the girl's account as you carefully click through her posts. You’re greeted with an aesthetic array of photos, some of her friends, some of her cat, and pretty pictures of old brick buildings and fall trees. But your eyebrows slowly move up your face when you see her.
Your thumb swipes through each post as you see her stunning hair framing her face in freshly done curls, her eyes striking and delicate as she wanders around a bookstore. Her outfits are always perfectly curated, and her makeup delicately done to accentuate her already natural beauty in a way that makes a part of you, something you tried to bury and starve, twist with envy at the effortlessness of her perfection.
“Guess she had a change of heart this year,” Shoko says, taking her phone back from your outstretched hand, turning it off as she placed it face down on the table, “She texted me this morning saying that she was ‘gonna be here for December and some of January and that she wanted to catch up.”
“You would like her,” Suguru directs his attention back at you, his words matching the genuine smile on his face, “She’s super bright and bubbly. And she’s so funny. Oh, and she's, like, insanely smart. She graduated from Cambridge when she was nineteen, and she’s doing grad school at Harvard.”
“Hmm, yeah,” Shoko hums, “I mean, she almost came here if she didn’t get the call from Harvard,” she nudges you with her shoulder, “But I don’t know how much he,” she points her eyes to Satoru, watching the way his mouth slightly parts at being called out, “Would’ve appreciated that, though.”
He scoffs, his tongue poking at his cheek as he leans in slightly, his arms crossing the table as Suguru snickers.
“I have no issue with Vivienne,” he argues, his brows pulling into a cute little frown, “She was just…”
“What?” Suguru juts in, Shoko scoffing a laugh next to you as Gojo only peers at him from the side of his eyes, “Madly in love with you? Was going to pick Oxford to be with you? And you were…what, days away from breaking up with her when she came sobbing to us that you have the emotional intelligence of a rock?”
Your eyes widen slightly, looking over at Shoko for confirmation, one she returns with a faint grin. Despite the sunken feeling in your heart, one that you often get whenever you are reminded of the fact that, unfortunately, literally everyone is also in love with Gojo Satoru, you have to control your face not to giggle at the statement.
Gojo makes a noise deep in his throat, the tips of his ears slightly pink from the added attention.
You swallow as you try to grapple with all this information. But, as always, the conversation moves on and you push everything back as you find yourself smiling once again, listening to how Suguru animatedly tells the story of how he bombed one of his essays because he forgot which citation format to use, and you try to not make it obvious how you’d peek over at Shoko now and then and see who it was that she was stalking, probably some girl from her class that she was plotting on.
The music lolls on in the background, the pub getting more packed with students and tired workers, and you find yourself content with listening to your friends tell you about their week, taking small sips from your straw as you grin and laugh as poke Shoko’s thigh whenever a cute guy, devastatingly never as cute as Gojo, walks by the table, and she, gripping your knee whenever a girl her type flashes her a look from over their shoulders.
“I think I’m wanted somewhere else at the moment,” she whispers, leaning closer to your ear as you follow her line of sight to a girl sitting at the bar, her long blonde hair thrown over her shoulder as she steals the occasional glance at your friend, “I’ll be back.”
You giggle, pushing at her to go as she swats your hand away playfully, sending you a wink as you send one back, watching her go as Suguru and Gojo watch silently, sending each other knowing looks before Shoko disappears behind the other booths.
“Well, if she’s going, might as well take this time to piss,” Suguru states, putting his hands on the wood as he hoists himself up, sending a cheeky little smile as he imitates Shoko’s sashay, “Don’t wait up.”
You roll your eyes, trying not to watch him leave as if to draw out the silence that will inevitably follow, seeing that it’s just you and Gojo remaining. Your fingers play with your empty glass as you glance back to him, sending him a small smile as you feel chagrin already seeping into your veins.
He clears his throat, his eyes darting from your face to your arms, his tongue poking his cheek as he swallows. You wonder how much he’s dreading the awkward silence that has the possibility of ensuing.
“Water?”
Your eyes squint at the sudden question, looking down to the long finger he has pointed at your glass, and you look back up at him, wondering if he was stating the obvious or if your feelings for him had made you delirious and unable to compute anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Do you want some more water?” He explains, and you feel your cheeks heat again at your blunder, “I’m going up there to get a refill anyway.”
You nod gratefully, swallowing your feelings down as you glance up at him, handing him your empty glass with ice sloshing around as your smile wobbles.
“I’d appreciate it, thank you,” your voice dips slightly as you grin stupidly the longer you look at his long lashes and his pink lips, somewhat glad that he was getting away so you could less opportunities to screw up, and you watch as his beautifully large hand wraps around the glass like it was nothing, sending you a small nod as he crouches slightly so that the overhanging light wouldn’t hit his head on the way out.
Leaving you alone, you pull out your phone, also thankful to have a little moment to yourself as you quickly try to catch up on the notifications you had gotten in the past couple of hours, as the noise around you mixes, adding a comforting ambience as you lean against the old walls, your head leaning against your fist.
You were so engrossed in your own little bubble that you didn’t notice the figure hovering near the other end of the table, only noticing the man when you looked to the side, thinking that either Suguru or Gojo was back, only for your eyes to widen in shock and surprise to be greeted with an unfamiliar face.
Letting out a small noise, adjacent to an audible gulp, you sit up straighter, looking bashfully at him as you turn your phone off, taking in his slender frame and the rectangular-framed glasses that sit wonkily on his nose as he fidgets nervously with the hem of his lumpy sweater. Ironically, having everything that Gojo has but wearing it so drastically differently that you have to snap yourself out of the comparison.
The boy's hair is slightly parted, light blonde, and his eyes framed with what seemed like brown lashes. His cheeks are dusted with light freckles, and his smile is lopsided as he scratches the back of his neck.
Cute in a schoolish way, you think.
“H-hi,” his voice is high, squeaking and wobbly as he leans on the booth, not knowing what to do with his arms as he uses the back of his hand to push his glasses upwards, “Hi, I just…”
Your head tilts slightly, curiosity filling your eyes as you give him a gentle smile, waiting patiently for him to find his words.
“I’m Kento,” he stammers after a second, scratching behind his ears as a red flush settles over his high cheeks, “I’m sitting over there,” he points to a table behind him, and your neck cranes to see a group of boys his age all staring at his back, “And I just thought-”
He opens his mouth to say something else, but pauses, his gaze drifting to something, or rather someone, coming his way, and you’re too focused on the way sweat dots at his hairline or the way he fidgets with the hem of his sweater to even notice the full glass of water sliding in front of you from the other side of the booth.
Your back straightens as your head whips to the side, eyes widening when you realize that Satoru had returned, his one drink nestled in his hand as his stare bounces between you and, who you evidently had just discovered, Kento.
Blue eyes flicker over your face, a moment's decision faltering in his mind as he slithers into not his original seat in front of you, but next to you, his large frame taking up half of your side of the both as your brows furrow in confusion, lips pulling into a tote as your eyes squint at the way he hunkers in like it was normal.
Is he okay? You try not to have your heart burst out of your chest and flip flop around on the table like a fish out of water at being in such proximity to Satoru, but you don’t even have time to think about that as the rest of your mind falters, trying to make sense of this behavior.
One of his beefy arms unravels from his side as it stretches above your head, resting atop the cushioned seats as he sighs deeply through his nose, taking a sip of his drink as if he hadn’t interrupted anything, and his chin turns over to the boy, waiting.
Kento stammers, even worse than before, as he pushes back his spiky hair with a hand, looking between you and Satoru as you blink slowly, not really knowing what to do, awkwardly lingering in your seat as you wonder if anybody’s going to talk.
“Everything alright?” Satoru asks finally, his voice slightly lower than usual, somewhat taunting but hard to tell, seeing that his face was blank, thick as it almost bounces off Kento’s skull, his cheeks turning into a bright pink as you lets out a small exhale of air, something resembling a shocked laugh at the strange and sudden shift in his behavior.
“I, uh, I,” Kento’s voice wobbles as he seizes up Satoru’s size and his overall presence, a strange look of shock and even awe as you gnaw on the inside of your cheek, not fully knowing what was going on as Kento’s head dips in embarrassment, “I’m sorry…I didn’t know, uh, that you, you were…yeah…sorry…”
His arm raises in a small wave, quickly turning on his heels, the back of his neck almost red as you blink rapidly, letting out a small huff of air as your neck almost snaps towards the man next to you, stammering as you try to find your words.
Satoru looks at you, taking another sip.
“What?”
You scoff, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you stumble over a slew of words.
“What? W-what do you mean what?” You let out a bewildered laugh, looking across the pub at the boy and his group of friends that almost seem to be comforting him, their hands on his shoulders as he profusely shakes his head, “What the hell was that for?”
His white brows pinch in the middle, as if he doesn't understand your startlement, as if you were the one being crazy.
But you weren’t being crazy. Not in the slightest.
You brushed it off the first time Satoru scared off a guy who was talking to you. You thought it was strange, sure, how in the middle of your lively conversation of John Milton and Paradise Lost that he wandered from the other side of the room, suddenly attached to your side, his height towering over the other guy as he quieted down and scurried away. You just chalked it up to him being bored, despite how annoyed you were.
The second time, a guy was seconds away from putting his phone in your number when Satoru’s voice rang in your ears, and you watched, horrified, as he peered down at the guy's cracked phone screen, scoffing at the fact that he was listening to some stupid band he disapproved of.
Then there was the time when you were at this same pub, getting some drinks for Shoko, waiting at the counter, flirting with the guy next to you when Satoru found his way back to you, as if pulled by a magnet, and asked the guy if he always chose to talk to girls he didn’t know with a fresh hickey on his neck. (That one you weren’t mad at, more so embarrassed).
But it’s happened countless times. At the pub, at gatherings, at galas he’s invited you to as his plus one because he said nobody else could make it, at the library when he came a little too early and a guy from your class was sitting next to you, at the cafe, and at the small party he threw last year.
And if you weren’t so in love with him, you’d be madder than you were. You knew he was just being a protective and caring friend, not wanting you to get hurt, but you knew you’d have to start moving on from this debilitating crush, and he wasn’t making it any easier.
“I just asked him if everything was alright,” he explained, his tone bordering on bored as he pulls out his phone, checking the time as he angles his body slightly to look at you better, and you're somewhat aware of the fact that his arm is still somewhere above your head, “He’s the one that scurried away.”
Your mouth drops open, your palms jamming into your eye sockets as your head hits the table, banging it a couple times as you try to pull away from him, slightly angered, slightly, and very, ever so slightly, internally flustered at something you definitely should be flustered over.
“You…you scared him away!” Your voice is muffled as you groan, not caring much as you shoot him an angry and bitter look.
Satoru’s lashes flutter slightly, his pink lips pulling into a confused line as you shove his knee with your own, realizing that you were, in fact, not joking and were seriously considering the idea of giving that blubbering mess a chance.
“Are you - are you serious?” His thumb jabs in the general direction of where he had gone, “Him?”
You roll your eyes, chest heaving with a sigh as your forehead continues to rest on the cool tabletop, the tip of your nose rubbing against the varnish as you groan.
Deep down, you know that this crush of yours is fruitless and useless. It’s never going to get anywhere, and the only thing it can offer you is more hurt and rejection. You know that you are so far from his type and out of your league that he’d never see you as more than a friend, if that, but you continued to have it because it lit a fire inside of you that you sadistically enjoyed.
That being said, you would prefer, at some point, to have a romantic moment, even if fleeting, and having the man you’ve been in love with for two years chase away the only guy who’s had the balls to come up to you made you irrationally annoyed for some reason that you didn’t fully understand.
“He…he seemed nice,” you argue, your eyes closing shut as your hand shifts, and you rest your cheek on the back of it, your back bent at an angle as you look up at him from your position on the table, “And he was cute-”
Gojo cuts you off with a startled laugh, a disbelieving one as his eyebrows shoot upwards, showing more than the five emotions you usually see him with as genuine shock laces his features, and it only spurs on that angry fire inside of you as you press.
“What? What? He was cute!” Your head lifts quickly from its spot on the table as your body shifts to look at him even better than before, trying not to notice the cute wrinkle of his nose or the frosty irises of his eyes that are looking so intently at you that it could knock the air out of your lungs if you stare long enough, “And I…I don’t know, I think he wanted to talk to me!”
Gojo snorts, his arm tightening around the cushion behind you, his hand dangling off the end, his fingers dangerously close to the side of your ear as you swallow thickly.
“Well, of course, he wanted to talk to you,” his other hand pushes his glasses upwards, the veins on the back of his hand evident, “ I just can’t believe that he’s someone you’d want to entertain.”
You stutter, hurt flashing across your face as it pulls into sour bewilderment.
You’ve barely talked to Satoru for more than a couple of minutes at a time about classes or projects or annoying classmates, and you can’t believe your luck that the first conversation between the two of you that stemmed outside of those points is about this.
“What, what’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dips slightly, embarrassed, as his own expression slightly shifts at your tone.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly not expecting this to blow up in his face as it did, and he sighs, retreating to his old, composed self as he explains himself.
“Look, I have him in a couple of my classes,” he starts again, lips pulling into a thin line as he looks over his shoulder to Kento and then glances back to you, “He shows up late and never does his work and always asks to most ridiculous questions,” Satoru adds and you try not to have your lips quirk at the sudden revelation, not wanting to give in and let your foolish feeling stake the wheel and guide you to forgiving him, but it’s not use as he continues, “I just figured that…someone like that isn’t someone good for you. Even if he did just want to talk.”
Your mouth dries up, and you try not to let your head burst and remind yourself that he’s thinking about this from a friend's perspective, something kind and caring and companionly, but not in the way you would want from your crush, but Satoru is still waiting on your response so instead you swallow everything down and your lips tote, avoiding eye contact as you attempt to seem indifferent despite your outburst.
“How ridiculous are his questions?” You finally ask, peeking over at him from where your gaze had been training on the ice in your water, and you swear you see a flicker of surprise take over his gorgeous features, as though you were going crazy with the way his blankness faded momentarily and gave way to a little smile.
He sighs, this time lighter, his hand behind you shifting ever so slightly to push at the back of your head, gingerly but in a teasing way as you try not to smile a giddy smile, one that doesn’t reflect the fact that you couldn’t really care about the guy who had come up to talk to you when Satoru cared enough because he didn’t think he was good enough for you to talk to.
“Even more ridiculous than asking if adding ice to rice would help it steam up more than if you used water,” he says, picking up his drink as he nurses it over his mouth, fighting back a smug grin at the way you sputter, pushing him roughly as your cheeks heat up again for bringing up one of your late-night queries.
“Fine, fine, fine, I’ll give you this one!” You rub at your eyes, shoulders hunched, “But you have to stop scaring off every single guy that tries to talk to me! He could be a normal guy who’s going to come up, and you’re going to disapprove of him just because he wears mismatched socks or only writes in pen!”
Satoru snorted indifferently, proving your point that he didn’t seem to care.
“Writing solely in pen is psychotic behavior,” he grumbled to himself, recalling the time one of his classmates had the gall to ask you for your number before he quickly shut it down, inserting himself in the middle of the conversation until the guy gave up and left.
You groan, head dropping back onto the table as you tap it lightly, a quiet thud reverberating in your tiny corner of the room.
“One of these days you’re going to have to come to terms with the fact that the reason you shut people down is different from the reasons I shut people down.” You say, moving your arms upward so that you could set your cheek on it, looking at the empty seats in front of you instead of the man you’ve had a crush on, sputters.
“What do you mean?” His voice drops a little bit, and you angle your head to look up at him, brows pinching in the middle as you let out a little laugh, something sardonic as you shake your head to yourself.
“You…” you pause, stopping, sighing to yourself as you try to control your words before you say something you’ll regret, “You have like…perfect people coming up to you. And if you choose to reject them, that’s up to you, I get it. But last week you turned a girl down because she said that Star Wars was a waste of money,” the two of you share small laugh because you can recall just how red he got, embarrassed but peeved when somebody just offended his entire lifeline, but you continue, “It…it’s just,” you press your lips together as something in your chest clenched, “I don’t really have that luxury. I don’t have perfect guys coming up to me with little quirks, you know? There’s always something wrong with them, even if I don’t see it then. Like they don’t show up to dates or they make fun of my major, or just…only want to sleep with me, and then when they find out I don’t want that, they leave. And any of the sane ones that have small issues, you’re always there to shoot them down!”
You stop, taking in a deep breath as you try to regulate your emotions, refusing to look at him right now as you let some pent-up feelings loose, just grateful that he hasn’t left and decided to let you figure this out on your own.
“Look,” you glance at him, giving him a small smile, “I’m thankful that you care. Really, I am. But…but I just want to experience something…with someone, y’know? At least once when I’m still in university. I’m almost twenty-one, and I haven’t even had my first kiss!” Despite how embarrassing it is, it slips out, and your chees heat up as you hurry on with your ramble, “And if it has to be with something who asks stupid questions or says my name wrong on the first attempt or doesn’t know what my favorite color is, I guess I’m just gonna have to bite the bullet and take that risk. I,” you look away, back to focusing on the leather cushions in front of you as you gnaw on your lip, “I don’t really have any other option.”
Giving it a moment, you let your shoulders sink, going back to playing with the straw wrapper in front of you as you debate whether it would be better to just throw yourself out the window or risk saying something else that you’d stay awake the next couple of nights pinching yourself over.
You heard him inhale exaggeratingly, the arm behind you moving a little downwards in order to hook one of his fingers around the collar of your sweater, trying to grab your attention. You tilt your chin sideways, lips pursed, and attempt not to let his overwhelming presences budge how bitter you were feeling for some reason.
“I think,” he sighed again, gnawing on his bottom lip as he tried to formulate his thoughts, the overhead lamp casting a soft orange light over his face and it made your pitiful stomach churn with desperate want, “I think that if you’re too pessimistic.”
That get’s a dry laugh from you, and you roll your eyes at his statement. Before he’s able to say anything, he gets interrupted by Suguru rounding the corner, sliding into his seat with a wide grin, one that falls when he sees his friend has changed the seating arrangement.
“Why’d you move?”
Satoru paused, tearing his eyes away from the side of your face as he glanced at his friend, his fingers moving upwards as you tried not to look at him and make anything obvious. You hope he doesn’t bring up Kento and your little meltdown, but he seems to read your mind.
“You were bothering me too much,” he mutters, and Suguru lets out a startled scoff, throwing the hair tie around his wrist at him as Sator just flings it to the side. Suguru doesn’t push, though, and starts telling the two of you that he was held up at the bathroom entrances because a couple was having a ‘lover's spat’, his words not yours, and he just had to hear it before he left.
The rest of the night continued as it usually does.
If you could consider the uneven rhythm of your heart as normal.
—
Another week had passed, another seven days of agonizingly slow school work and duties.
It seemed like the days would flicker away at a snail-like pace until it got you to the one day of the week that you actually wished wouldn’t arrive, and would force you to stalk around the limited space of your dorm room as you think about what to wear to the theatre production that’s taking place in thirty minutes.
Your hand was on your hip, feet tapping against the floor as you looked at the two outfits you had hung on your dresser, lips pursed as your eyes moved back and forth between the one that would go better with those pair of kitten heels you thrifted with Shoko, or the dres that you rarely get to wear.
It took a couple more seconds of deciding, but you ultimately picked the more comfortable option, knowing that the university theater was always freezing, especially in October, and that a cute sweater was probably the better choice.
Thankfully, this gave you some more time to fix your hair and touch up your makeup, humming along to the music as your eye kept wandering down to your phone and then to your door, squinting as you turned it over, confused as to what was taking Shoko so long.
Instantly, your eyes widen at the plethora of messages you have from Shoko, a telltale sign that something was seriously wrong, given the fact that she never sent more than two messages at once.
shoko: pick up
shoko: girl ur literally always on ur phone wya
shoko: pls pls pls pick up
shoko: ur making me beg rn pls can u call me back
shoko: pls
You don’t have time to send her one of your stupid stickers, your fingers fumbling around as you look at the five missed calls you have from her, shaking your head in dismay at how it was possible to leave your phone alone for twenty minutes and come back to this.
It doesn’t take more than a ring before she answers on the other line.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cuts through immediately, rushed and worried, your legs bouncing as you hear some people talking in the background, and you can hear the way Shoko snaps at them to hush so that she can hear you better.
“Hi, yeah, no, no I’m fine - hey can you guys just,” she calls out again, hey annoyance dripping form her tone, some shuffling happening over the line as she moves somewhere where the noise is less, “Hey, hi, sorry for the noise,” she starts again and you just hum, eyebrows still pinches together in worry as you wait for her to continue, “I’m really sorry for spamming you, but I have some news.”
The worry on your face melts as you lean back in your seat.
“Yeah…?” you ask, but already predicting what it was that she was stressing out over telling you, but she lets out another exhale, and you could imagine her nodding wherever it was that she was at.
“I’m so sorry but I’m at work right now and,” some clattering happens in the background, the kitchen in great hustle for the Saturday evening rush it usually has at the restaurant she waitresses for, “God, Tommy just screwed everything up with our shifts and I thought he had written me as off for tonight but he wrote me as off for next Saturday and I wasn’t able to fine somebody to-”
You laugh softly, cutting off her rambling.
“‘Ko, babe, it’s fine, don’t worry about it,” you stress, leaning in slightly as you hear some silverware being unloaded, “It’s so okay, your job is so much more important than-”
“No, you’re more important than this - believe me,” she cuts you off this time, and you can see her standing hunched in the corner, gnawing on her fingernails in stress, “And I promised you I’d come with you and I can’t, and now I…I feel horrible.”
A smile creeps onto your lips, and you shake your head.
“It’s fine,” you stress, chuckling at her incoherent rambles, “I promise. The play’s going to be lengthy anyway, might as well take the time to make some money while you’re at it.”
You hear nothing except the kitchen roaring in the background for a few seconds before she sighs, clicking her tongue as she hums softly.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you tell her, hearing her chuckle softly over the phone, the disappointment evident in her voice, and you didn’t want to push her over the edge despite the small flicker of disappointment of having to go alone, “I promise you’re not gonna be missing anything.”
“Look, I know it’s not the same, but I was with Suguru when I found out, and he’s said that he could-”
This time, she’s cut off, but not by you.
A knock sounds over your door.
You sigh, smiling at your friend as you slowly rise, “You guys are so sweet, but you should’ve told him I’d be fine. Really, I usually do these things by myself anyway.”
She groans at your antics, somebody calling her name from the back as she tells them that she’s almost done.
“Shit, I have to go, but promise me you’ll tell me about how tonight goes, yeah?” She sounds hurried, and you make a few steps towards your door as you snort, rolling your eyes as you unlock the brass knob, shaking your head at the thought.
“Tell you about what? Oh, like how Suguru has a horrific attention span and can’t…” You swing the door wide open, but you trail off as your mouth hangs slightly, not greeted by your black-haired and eyebrow-pierced friend,
But Satoru.
Shoko seems to have picked up on your silence as meaning that you finally understood what she was talking about, and you can barely register her sing-songy bye as she leaves, the phone in your hand lying limp as Satoru’s brow raises skeptically at your dumbfounded expression.
Damn you, Shoko Ieiri.
“Hi,” you say breathlessly, almost stupidly, as your hand falls from behind the door to your side, tilting your head a bit as Satoru just stares, hands in his pockets, and you shake back to reality, laughing apologetically as your neck prickles, “Sorry, I…I was just expecting someone else.”
His brow arches even more, and you huff out a laugh.
“Shoko just said that Suguru was coming,” you explain, stepping back from the entranceway as his mouth parts slightly.
“Right,” he nods, his hair falling gracefully in his face as you churn in your spit at the magnificent sight of him in his denim jeans and the navy sweater he was in, “I hope it’s okay that I came. Suguru couldn’t make it.”
You blink, wanting to say that you were so okay with him, but you swallow that done as you shake your head, waving his statement away.
“This is…this is fine,” You stammer to say, your smile wobbly. You hope that he can’t pick up on the way that your eyes are roaming over the way his button-up sits comfortably on his broad chest, or the way his glasses look on the bridge of his nose, “I, uh, I just have to do my mascara, so give me like,” you look at the clock behind you. Your eyes bulge at the fact that you have only five minutes left, “Two seconds and I’ll be done.”
He nods, his head tilting slightly to the side as he looks at your face and his eyes travel down your outfit. His hand raises, a finger pointed at your sweater.
“Nice sweater,” he says, something teetering on teasing, and you look down, suddenly realizing that it’s the sweater he had given you last year for your birthday, the one that you had seen months prior after walking past a vintage store and exclaimed how much you liked it, only to be stumped by the price.
Your confusion melts into a wide smile, your head still poking out from outside your door as you survey the material, not noticing the way his eyes soften just a smidge at your flighty reaction.
“Oh - right, thank you again for getting it!” You say cheerfully, an entire evening or perfection and romance already forming in your head as you try not to appear too excited, pointing back to your room as you duck away, “I’ll, uh, I’ll be back, then!”
Satoru nods, giving you a small smile as you shut the door behind you, your back hitting it as you give yourself a moment to reciprocate, curse Shoko and her blasted antics, and calm your heartbeat down long enough.
This was so fine, you tried to tell yourself,
Everything was going to be fine.
—-
The lobby of the Oxford theater was unusually packed, and you even voiced your surprise when Satoru led you in, your eyes wide as you took in all the students, some looking at the programs, others waiting in line for the bathroom.
“Damn,” you mutter, squeezing past someone as Satoru follows behind you, “I didn’t think it was going to be this busy.”
The walk here had been…fine. You had talked for most of it, which you had predicted, and with the few times Satoru would interject and give some comments on the stories you told him about your week, you feel like you told five times that amount of embarrassing and lame jokes, shutting yourself up once after wincing at how terrible it was. Satoru cracked a small smile, though, a pitiful one, most likely to keep you from shutting up the entire night.
It’s strange, just how different you act around him. In attempts to make yourself seem cooler and interesting, you wind up embarrassing yourself even more. You could have sworn that you never acted like this with Shoko or Suguru, or literally anybody else, even your old crushes, but when it came to Satoru, you seemed to lose the sense of normalcy you had come to know.
But you don’t have time to worry about that, now trying to put your attention on wondering how many of the students here are from that stupid class you’re taking right now, and even looking in the sea of bodies confirms that answer when you see some familiar faces. The concession stand in the corner, the one run by the theater department to raise some extra funds, seems to be swarmed, and your stomach grumbles instantly at the smell of buttered popcorn that wafts through the air.
“Where’re our seats?” He’s standing by you now, and you have to crane your neck slightly to look at him. You sift through your tote, pulling out your wallet and opening it to reveal the tickets tucked inside, and hand one to him while keeping the other for yourself.
“Row H,” you read out loud, “You’re seat 18, and I’m 19.”
He nods, pocketing it before he looks back out into the lobby, his eyes focusing on the wide double doors that led you into the theater, watching the ticket taker check the people’s tickets before looking back at the concessions, remembering how much you were raving on your walk here about how good the snacks were.
“Do you still want some…?” He juts his chin towards the hand-made sign that reads Beggars Snacks!
“Hm?” You look back at the table, and you let out a small laugh, “Oh, yeah, right,” you look through your wallet again, putting your ticket there for safekeeping as you glance back up at his gorgeous face, “Yeah, I’ll be back. You can go find your seat, if you want.”
Satoru opens his mouth and then shuts it, glancing at you and then the doors, and his shoulder straightens slightly.
“Right, well….right,” he murmurs, looking a little torn, his voice drowning out by the roar of sound around you two, but you’re able to make out the low grumble of his after being near him for so long, “I’ll…I’ll see you in a few.”
You smile again, giving him two thumbs up as you turn on your heel, your hands clenching in frustration at how utterly inhuman you seem to act around him, somehow making it seem like it was your first day on this planet.
Peeking over your shoulder, you watch as he leaves towards the entrance of the theater, and you duck your head down as you find your way to the large line leading up to the snacks. Coming here for the past four years has taught you to go for the popcorn, pass on the homemade cookies, and snatch up the little boxes of candy if they have them.
Checking your phone as you wait idly, you text Shoko a slew of messages cursing her and her entire bloodline for blindsiding you like this, hoping she sees them after her grueling shift and only feels worse about leaving you like this.
Keep a tab of the line as it slowly moves, you eye the clock, knowing that the show was going to start soon. It seems to dwindle a bit, as some people in front of you and behind you give and leave, deciding it wasn’t worth it, and after scrolling through your feed a little bit more, you find yourself next in line.
Glancing through the snacks, your stomach protests louder, ravenous after a day fueled on granola bars, a pathetic excuse of a yogurt bowl, and some crisps you had lying around, until you feel your hopes and dreams plummet when you see a small sign at the edge of the table that says only cash.
Fucking bullshit, you think angrily, whipping your wallet out again as you rifle through the confines, who still uses only cash? What medieval system was this? They accepted cards last time, this is entirely-
And you could complain petulantly in your head as much as you want, but your face falls as you search through for the third time, coming to the consensus that you didn’t have a lick of cash on you. The person in front of you is almost done, but your shoulders sag as you begrudgingly step away, shaking your head in dismay as you make your way to the theater entrance, flashing your ticket to the ticket taker as he lets you in with a wide smile.
The ushers point you towards aisle H, and you patiently dispute the hate still inside of you, burning. Waiting as those in front of you find their seats, and it doesn’t take long before you’re able to see a pop of hair standing high amongst the rest of the people in the audience.
You move past a couple of people talking as you move closer, almost skidding when you stop instantly, realizing that Satoru was, in fact, not alone.
From this angle, you could see the girl standing in front of him, a wide grin on her face as she laughs at something he says. Your eyes go to his face, your posture falling even more when you see the little quirk of his lips, a sign that he wasn’t necessarily hating the conversation, and the loss of the popcorn feels pointless now as your stomach churns for another reason.
It was selfish to think that you were the only person who liked Satoru, but it didn’t hurt any less when you were confronted with this fact at least once a week. You knew you couldn’t expect anything from this stupid crush, a theorem forming inside your head that you continued to fall for Gojo Satoru just because you liked the sting of knowing you had no shot with him, and seeing other girls and their gleeful smiles at the fact that you probably had a chance is what maybe hurt the most.
You weren’t ever angry at these girls, understanding them completely, even admiring the way they could flirt so effortlessly, and treated you kindly whenever you were near, but it singed a part inside of you that liked to act that you were in this small fictional bubble that you dreamt of whenever he looked your way.
Like he was right now.
Standing awkwardly to the side, at the end of the row, you sway idly in your spot, looking at the two of them and then around, wondering when the lights were going to start dimming and notify you of when the show was about to start.
You hear your name being called, a familiar cluster of syllables from his throat, and you look away from the painting on the wall to the side as you see Satoru throwing up a hand, trying to grab your attention.
When he sees you finally looking his way, he turns back to the girl, saying a few more words as she nods, her smile still soft as she glances at you, a strange look on her face as she sends you another smile, and you can’t help but return it despite the sinking feeling in your gut.
She leaves through the other end, and you mutter a few apologies as you finally make your way down to where he was standing, ducking your head down sheepishly as you fidget with the strap of your tote.
“Hey,” you say meekly, your cheeks heating as you finally get to him, “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
One of his hands waved, shaking his head as he looked back to where the girl had retreated with her friends.
“You weren’t interrupting,” he tells you, and your brows furrow slightly because that was a white lie if you’ve ver heard one, “I knew her from my lab,” he he says, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes trace of your face, falling to your empty arms as they squint, the conversation with the girl suddenly feeling his head as he points, “Where’s your popcorn?”
The past couple of moments seem to flee too as you wring your hands awkwardly together, shooting him a tight smile as you try to appear indifferent.
“Oh, they didn’t take card,” you mumble bitterly, “And I forgot my wads of cash back in my dorm, so,” you shrug, laughing it off as you point to the seats, “But it’s fine, I…erm, wasn’t really feeling it anyway,” a lie, since that was all you could talk about, but you push past him as you sit down, setting your tote on your lap as you look at him, waiting for him to do the same.
Satoru peeks at you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he swallows, not doing anything to sit down as one of your brows moves upwards, confused about the mental turmoil that he was going through, which made him reluctant to sit.
“Everything okay?” You ask slowly, shifting your legs, wondering if he was tight for room, but he just nods, tongue poking through his rosy lips as he glances back towards the double doors as he briefly nods.
“I need to use the bathroom,” he mutters, and you nod, lips pursing in understanding as you look over your shoulders, watching as more people start taking their seats.
“Okay,” you sit back a little bit, your finger pointing behind you to where the bathrooms were, “Well, you, you should probably go, like, now. I think the shows going to start,” you say with a light chuckle and check your phone, realizing that there were only five minutes left till the lights turned off, “In a little bit.”
Satoru just nods again, saying spoke few words before he turns to leave, murmuring apologies to the people sitting down as his long legs knock their knees, and you watch him leave the aisle and go before you turn your attention back to the stage, taking the time to admire the props and the set design, trying to think back to the original story and see if it lines up with how you remembering it starting.
When the overhead lights start flickering, and Satoru isn’t back yet, you churn in your seat, looking over your shoulder every couple of seconds, hoping that he doesn’t have to navigate back in the dark.
You send him a small text saying that it was almost going to be lights out when you see his figure in the corner of your eye, watch as he nears your row with his arms full, and you squint, trying to see through the dimness to see what it was that he was holding.
The closer he gets, the more you’re able to see, and it’s only until he’s lowering himself to sit down that you make out the popcorn bag in one hand, and some boxes of sweets in the other.
He says nothing as he shoves the popcorn into your hand, settling in as he looks around the seat, trying to move the armrests up only to see that they’re stuck in place, completely oblivious to your wide-eyed stare as he lets out a big sigh, resting back as his legs spread out a little bit. He opens a box of Maltesers, adjusting his glasses as he looks at the stage.
“Want some?” He finally says, his voice low as he pushes the red box towards you, and your cheeks are almost on fire as you glance at the paper bag of popcorn in his outstretched hand.
“I…” you blink, holding onto the popcorn so that it doesn’t spill, “Here.” You dumbly give him the bag back, assuming that he had only given it to you so that he could sit down more comfortably.
Only now does he tear his eyes away from the stage, tuning out the voice over the announcements, the regular message of turning off your phones and staying quiet, as his elbow pushes your arm back to your seat.
“Can’t have corn,” he says bluntly, looking over at your startled expression, “It’s yours.”
It’s yours.
Here’s another moment you're going to mull over before another minuscule thing he does happens again, and you spend the next months thinking about that.
“Are you sure?” You whisper, already pulling your phone out to Venmo him for it, but Satoru can already tell what you're about to do as he flicks it away, as if it was repulsive to him, and you don’t have any time to argue because the curtains pull outwards and reveal the actors.
You drag a hand over your face, trying not to look over at him anymore as you begrudgingly accept the kind token, trying to relax in your seat as the show begins, a tentative finger plucking out a popcorn as you bring it to your mouth, hoping that the only person who can what the blood roaring in your ears is you.
—
Nearly a quarter in, and you start to realize just how bad an idea this was.
The play itself was great. The actors were delivering their performance in a manner that felt reminiscent ot the campy nature of the original text, and some people in the audience were keeling over with laughter in certain parts.
You found yourself with a wide smile throughout most of it, recalling some of the bits and others jogging your memory, but you were thoroughly enjoying it nonetheless. The issue was, the person next to you seemed to be despising it.
The rare couple of times you peeked over to see his reaction to a couple of things, you noticed his jaw clenched, sitting straight and uptight as his eyes never left the stage. He barely mustered up a smile during the funny portions, looking utterly depleted during the serious bits, and his hands were clasped together, fingers interwoven as he sighed, unamused.
Every time somebody would do something weird, you’d glance his way and would still see the same stone-cold expression on his face. You were aware that the play itself was over exaggerated and strange at times, but that was the whole appeal of it in the first place. But at times, you tried to view it through the lens of someone who didn’t go in-depth into literature and read the nuances of somebody like Satoru, who would rather spend their free time studying and working on their mountain of assignments, not something like this, and you felt your chest getting heavier and heavier with each second.
When it neared intermission, you could’ve sworn you had nearly melted in your seat, your popcorn done as you glanced over at Satoru when the lights finally turned back on, people around you standing up to leave or stretch.
A beat of silence passes before you clear your throat, mustering up a wobbly grin as you jab a thumb to the curtains.
“Funny, huh?”
Satoru blinks, as if coming back to, and you debate if he had been half asleep. The thought makes you sink even deeper in embarrassment.
“It’s, uh,” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back as he swallowed thickly, “It’s…interesting. I haven’t really seen anything like it before.”
You pause, chew on the side of your lip, rubbing at your eyes as you try to think of anything else to say. You’ve spent time with him alone, sure, but never in a situation where it felt like you had to defend yourself, your background, the whole reason why you were here in the first place, like you are now.
People bustle around the two of you, and he sits up a little straighter, pushing his shoulders back as his neck cracks a bit.
“It’s raunchy and… theatrical,” you try to explain, attempting to seem unconcerned as you fold the paper bag up and set it neatly on the ground, making a mental note to pick it up before you leave. “But I think it’s really interesting given the period it was written and how vulgar, everything is, and the characters are all super unlikable, which you don’t really see in these kinds of productions, and, well, it’s supposed to be funny and…fun, I guess,” your voice dies down, your lips almost chewed raw as you wait for a reaction, a facade of interest, a pitiful acknowledgement to what felt like your livelihood, but he just nods.
You suck in a deep breath, gaze darting around the theater as you try to look at anything else.
Noticing your sudden silence, his eyes leave the stage for a moment as they rake over your expression, see the way your lips pull into a small, worried line, the crease between your brows, something that appeared whenever you were stressed or confused. His face seemed to melt to mirror yours.
“Is there a reason why they keep calling the daughter a slut?” He finally asks, and your eyes dart back to him, and your cheeks puff, blinking slowly as you nod, embarrassed for some reason as you stammer to find words.
“It’s, erm, well, it’s in the original material, but,” your words mesh together as you try to call back on the research paper you did for this piece, your mind blanking as your cheeks heat, “But I think they keep it in because it’s supposed to be a demonstration of the degradation of women and the differentiation between men who also exhibit premarital interest in the sex…and it’s not supposed to be funny but they repeat it a lot, so you kind of become numb to the meaning of the word...” Your rambling quiets near the end as you shoot him another tense smile, wringing your hands together as your lips tremble, looking away as a last resort to save your dignity.
After spending two years with him, you’ve become familiar with his routine and what he expects from his day-to-day life. What some describe as the prodigal son, Gojo Satoru, if not with friends, is usually found in the back of the library, in his dorm, or somewhere quiet with papers strewn in front of him, with his laptop out, typing away. He sometimes goes to benefits and galas, some to attend because of his parents, others because of his biochemistry path, but his time isn’t usually spent at the theater watching vulgar plays.
That’s what you did.
And of course, you didn’t come here weekly. You had to be here for that godforsaken Literature in English class. But this was a part of you, this play, this environment, these exaggerated dialogues are what you spent your time obsessing over. The history and the meaning, and the importance of English literature and writings are your life, and having someone next to you, watching a personification of it live, felt like inviting them into a piece of your mind, even if they wouldn’t view it as such.
But to you, you who liked to overcomplicate and read into things, saw it as such, and your heart was thumping erratically when you realized that Satoru probably saw this, you, as equally insane for enjoying something like this.
And you hated how much the thought made you spiral, made you think of yourself less than when there was a possibility that this wasn’t what Satoru was thinking at all, but the slight chance, the small probability, is what stirred the trepidation in you.
“Are you enjoying it?”
His question brings you out of your mental fever, and you bite your cheek, wondering what the right answer would be. He’s watching you, waiting, and you exhale shakily, smiling poorly as you swallow back some bile.
“I, I am,” you say finally, “It’s just…I did this huge essay on this last year, and I’ve been looking for a rendition of it, but there’s only this old movie that’s so far been made, so…seeing this live is pretty cool.”
He nods, looking at your stalled expression as you keep your eyes trained on the curtains, not wanting to show your internal thoughts on your ever-so expressive face, and he tries to keep his slight confusion at bay for your suddenly reserved self.
As you try to feign indifference by going on your phone, you can watch him from the corner of your eyes, look around, and uncharacteristically fidget in his seat as he debates doing the same as you or talking some more, which, at the moment, you don’t appear content to do. But the more you try to ignore him, the more it seems like your body has a physical reaction to it, protesting your desire to keep to yourself.
“Did you do anything fun today?” You ask, putting your phone down as you scratch at the inside of your wrist. He blinks, looking a little quizzically at you before he clears his throat.
“Well, Suguru had set me up for a double date,” he explains, and you feel your chest tighten a little bit, “But…eh,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t really feeling it,” he drags a hand over his face, “If only he knew where I’d end up instead, huh?” He nudges your elbow with his, a teasing grin on his face, but blood roars in your ears upon hearing his words.
Gods, the man who despised dates and unaccounted occasions and strange meetings would rather take that over this.
You let out a little puff of air, trying to give him a smile as you feel sweat dot on the back of your neck, your palms clammy as you wring your hands together, looking down at your shoes as you try to bite back the lump in your throat.
He’d rather be anywhere else than here, your mind blares, the unspoken words ringing in the small expanse of your heart.
There’s a strange gurgle in your stomach, one that shifts sharply, and you wince. This is definitely not a part of your internal trade, and you hope that when you shift to place a hand on it to try and calm it down. You turn your phone off, pocketing it in your tote, and the sudden movement makes you jerk in pain. You sit back up, hoping that he won't notice.
But, of course, he does.
He angles his body towards you, brows cinched as your eyes twitch barely.
“Are you okay?” His voice his deep, tinged with worry, his head leaning towards you just a bit so that you can feel his minty breath fan across your warm cheek.
You wave him off, shooting him a horrifically terrible smile as you shift, your head tilting to the side as your stomach makes another alien noise.
“Yeah,” you mutter, almost like a question because even you don’t know if you’re alright, “Yeah, I just think it’s the popcorn on an empty stomach.” But even that explanation made no sense. It seems like your stomach is churning even more with each passing second, and you really wish that he couldn’t tell that every moment is a testament to your battle for control of your own body.
“Do you want some water?” He asks, looking over his shoulder to the doors, remembering that the concession stand was also selling bottled drinks, “I’ll get some-”
But your hand shoots out, gripping the fabric of his sleeve as you tug on it, shaking your head as you attempt to situate yourself back in your seat, your act going well besides the slight crack in your face at a particularly painful jab.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine,” the lights flicker again above you, and you’re somewhat grateful for them, grateful hat you can’t see the obvious fear on his face at the prospect of you being sick near his very hygienic self, “The shows starting, anyway, so just,” your voice dips a little as you try to contain a groan, “Just stay.”
He goes to protest, but your hold on him is strangely tight for someone so riddled with pain, and his mouth parts to say something, but the glare you shoot him nearly shuts him up.
“Please,” you mutter, the embarrassment from several things thick in your voice as you wince, your eyes melting into something pleading as the applause begins, and his face falls for a second, but you look away, weakly clapping along with everybody else.
You feel tears prickly in your eyes.
And you hope he can’t see the shining gloss when you try to blink them back.
—
When the show ends, you’re nearly debilitated with the pain in your abdomen, and the mortification from having watched Macheath’s other wife battle it out with Polly alongside Satoru. They mix into a terrible combination, one that forces you to come back into consciousness in the middle of the theater, the bright overhead lights nearly sending you into a psychosis.
There must have been something horrifically wrong with either the popcorn or the butter they put on it, because, despite your blurry view, you can see a few people in the audience huddled up in their seats the same way as you, despite the play ending.
Satoru cleans up next to you, taking his boxes of candy and your strewn popcorn bag, and sits back up to look at you nervously.
“Are…are you sure you’re okay?” His gentle tone is one that you barely register as your hands grip onto the armrest. You can barely even muster up a hum, giving him a shaky thumbs up as your stomach gurgles again, this time, audibly.
You try to stand, but your knees wobble, and you grip onto the back of the seat as your head sways. You can feel his grip on your elbow, nearly knocking over some people's bottles beside him from how fast he stands up, and your clammy face looks upward at him, swearing that he looks like an angel with the light framing his hair.
“I,” you clamp your mouth shut, swallowing thickly as you wince, taking a few seconds before you start again, “I have to use the loo.” The declaration comes out as a whisper, an ashamed one, and you can’t look him in the face, even if his nods insistently, an arm of his wrapping around the expanse of your back as he tries to steady you
“There’s one near the concessions,” he tells you, his voice strangely considerate and temperate, head leaning down to get closer to your ear so that you could hear him better, “Do you think you can make it?”
You feel like a child, but you only nod, neck and face flaring up in embarrassment as you allow him to guide you through the aisle of people, not looking anybody in the eyes as you make it out, your legs shaking slightly. If it weren’t for him, you’re sure you would’ve toppled down in pain by now.
The walk out of the theater becomes a blur, letting him guide you towards the bathrooms with one of your hands wrapped tightly around your stomach, as if it would ease the pain, and you feel the two of you come to a stop as you stand next to the ladies' door.
His arm around you falls, and you miss its warmth. He looks crossed with different emotions as you use the wall to hold yourself up, wobbling towards the bathroom as you shoot a look over your shoulder.
“Thanks,” you whisper, your eyes widening and then shutting instantly at how much it hurts your head, “I’ll…I’ll be back.” The words slur in your mouth, and you don’t give him any time to react before you leave through the wooden door and book it to a stall.
The moments that follow afterwards are what you’d expect from a case of bad butter.
You kneel on the floor, heaving everything up, trying to be as quiet as possible so the girls in the stalls around you can’t hear, but it’s not a process that you’re particularly fond of and can feel your will to continue weakening as you leave back on the wall, your head in yours hands as you hear the toilet automatically flush.
At least getting it out of your system seems to have made the painful throbs dull down to an annoying little jab, but you feel like the bulk of the damage has already been done. Satoru was sweet enough that he’d try to never bring this up again, but you knew you’d have to live with the humiliation of this evening for a couple of months before you did something else that would top it.
You let your head tilt back and heave a gulp of air, palms jamming into your eyes as you attempt to swallow, your mouth too dry to produce any saliva. If Shoko were here, she’d at least try to make you laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. But it’s just you and Satoru, and you don’t know if you can even look at him for the next week after tonight.
Giving yourself a little more time to calm down, you heave yourself up from your position on the floor, careful not to touch the ground, and pluck your bag off the hook, miraculously throwing it on before you hunched, so as it wouldn’t touch anything too icky.
You wash and scrub your hands, feeling dirty and still a little sick as you splash some water on your face, hoping the cool water will help snap you back. The girls around you talk, some drying their hands, others touching up their makeup in the mirror. One of the girls next to you watches you through your reflection, her face pale and strands of hair wet as she splashes some water onto her face.
“Popcorn?” She asks, and your eyes find hers through the mirror, blinking slowly as your hands grip the counter.
“Yeah,” you take a deep inhale of air, sharing a small smile with her as you turn off the faucet, “Do you want some hand sanitizer?” You offer, going to reach into your tote, but she waves it off, giving you a kind smile as she continues to wash her hands, probably feeling just as bad as you were.
Giving her a small nod as you go to the paper towel dispenser, you reach around for your phone, opening it up as you quickly send a text to Shoko to update her on where you were, nothing too long, just to be safe, and tap the tip of your shoe on the ground, debating what to do next.
You could go see Satoru, probably waiting outside, and awkwardly explain that you should probably walk back, seeing how his germaphobic personality might not mesh with the fact that you had basically deposited your entire day in the theater washroom. You could also try to sneak away and hope that he was standing somewhere that granted you the option of stealth, but you quickly shook that off, quickly understanding how pathetic and childish it was.
After another moment of thought, you ball up the towel and throw it away, pushing the door open with your shoulder as you enter back into the lobby, the business having died down just a bit, and look around bravely for the man.
Spotting the pop of white near the end of the room, you take a few steps forward before you halt, stopping near a wall that offered you a little bit of insight as to what he was doing as you peeked around the corner.
2 - 0, you think sunkenly, watching the way Satoru talks to another girl, his broad shoulders shielding her from where you originally were, and that familiar ache enters your chest as you play with the hem of your sweater.
You could be sadistic when it came to your unrequited feelings; that much you had made peace with. But the universe was horrifically masochistic for the situations it thrust you into.
His face is a little more stiff than before, but still polite and kind as he cranes his neck to look at the girl. Her hair is pulled into a sleek bun, one that you always envied with how clean and precise some girls were able to make theirs, and watched how her hand lingered on his arm, something you could never get away with without his face falling into contained disgust.
It’s unfair to think this way of this stranger, you remind yourself, after all, if you had the guts, you’d try to make a move on him too.
So, in another moment of decision-making, you get your phone out again, trying to contain the little tremble in your lips as you start drafting a message to him. It’s for the best, you try to reason, telling him that you were too sick and didn’t want to give him what you had. You send another message, saying that you were going to make your way back to your dorm and that you hope he had fun, thanking him as much as you could without sounding pathetic for how much he did this evening and for coming.
You also sent him the venmo transfer for the popcorn you were going to make earlier for good measure.
Where you were presented you an easy way to slip out of the building, one of the exits a little bit behind you, as you rubbed at your tired eyes, wrapping your arms around your torso as you prepared for the cold gusts of wind that were going to hit you the moment you stepped out.
People around you were talking in muted voices, laughter ringing around your ears as you ducked your head down, hoping that this time by yourself could give you some moments of peace, even though you knew that being alone with your onslaught of thoughts was going to do the exact opposite.
This campus was always bustling on a Saturday night, so you never felt too alone as you made your way away from the theater, pulling out your headphones as you geared up your phone to listen to some music before you heard a muffled shout from behind you.
Brows furrowing and your eyes slightly shifted in confusion, you, along with some other students around you, looked to see what the sound was.
To your utter horror and stupefaction, you watch as Satoru whips his head around, as if he were looking for something, or rather someone.
You stand like a deer in headlights, hands raised mid-way to your ears to put your headphones in them as you see him check his phone and then look up again, not caring that other people were looking at him strangely as he runs a worried hand down his face, typing something furiously fast as he looks around again.
Finally, it seems like he found what he was looking for when your eyes lock, and he sends you an ice-cold, deathly glare, one that made you glance around as if it were someone behind you more deserving of such a look, but before you can do anything, he’s jogging over to where you were frozen in place.
The closer he gets, the more you can see the agitation and vexation in his microexpressions, things you’ve taken pride in before in reading, now not so much because you were on the receiving end of them.
When he comes to a halt, phone still in hand, his chest rises and falls a little fast, as if he were out of breath, and he runs another frustrated hand through his white locks as he pushes them back.
Your mouth gapes, and you suddenly remember that you were supposed to be “deathly ill” according to the text you had sent him, and try to make your breathing seem more labored, your posture more haggard, but that doesn't work as he eyes you like he knows.
“Where the hell are you going?” He snaps, and you wince slightly at his tone, and he reels, shooting you an apologetic look despite the fire burning inside of him from the way you’ve been acting this night.
“Back…back to my place,” you whisper, voice hoarse, and he hears it instantly, expression melting as he takes the time to really dissect the way your eyes are slightly bloodshot, your lips chapped, your lashes clumped with tears, and he takes a small step back, taking in a deep breath.
“No, I, shit,” he stammers, restarting, “Are you…” His voice comes out as thick and low, and you almost feel it in your bones as he pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to calm his nerves as he gives you a tilted look, “Are you okay?”
This time, he’s not asking because you were exhibiting signs of ailment, but because you had been acting like you were strangers since the moment you saw him tonight. Because your behavior was so off and unlike you, he was struggling to understand if there was something beneath the surface, something that had happened that he wasn’t aware of, that was fueling this shift.
Your eyes seem to waver as you try not to look at him, attempting a nonchalant shrug that is anything but, as you think of how to lower your voice to a deeper register to appear more sick than you really are.
“I feel sick,” you mutter, coughing feigningly as you pull on the straps of your tote upwards, as you clear your throat, trying not to feel the weight of the looks other people were giving the two of you.
A single brow of his raises, one that you know is detecting bullshit as you rub at your nose.
“I’m sure,” he finally murmurs, rolling his eyes at the obvious statement, “I think the entire lobby heard you throwing up your small intestine.” That statement alone almost makes you keel over in shame, humiliation, embarrassment, and disgrace, but he continues, “But…are you…okay? You’ve been…off…the entire night.”
And you know you can’t sidestep this landmine because you know how weird you’ve been acting this evening, knowing that your attempts to make things better have only backfired, and the past couple of hours come screaming back at you, and for some stupid, depressing reason, cause a sting of tears to prick behind your eyes.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as your head falls slightly, your stomach still aching, your pride and confidence bruised, and you can still smell the lingering perfume of the girl he had been talking to, another reminder that you probably didn’t smell like that perfume you had spritzed on so long ago.
“I’m okay,” you murmur, looking at the cracks on the ground, your voice shaking and wobbling and so clearly not true that you tilt your head back up to see his reaction, your face crumpling into a little wet laugh when he seems completely unmoved. Upon hearing your little giggle, his anger fades a bit, but is quickly replaced with another emotion when he hears you sniffle.
“Look, you-” he looks down at his phone to reread the text you had sent him, and his confusion seems to grow even more when he reads another notification, “Did you Venmo me?”
You nod again, weakly, and when you look up at him, you see him fighting back a startled laugh, the quiver on his face making your lips pull up into a wobbly smile, your own emotions turning into something strange as you watch him shake his head in dismay, running a stressed hand through his hair.
“Did something happen today?” He asks, not taunting, never taunting, but something you can’t place as you weakly not, a sheen over your eyes as you tug at your sleeves.
“…no,” you whisper, but the two of you know it’s far from the truth because even you can’t hide the way your lips tremble and your hands shake slightly.
He presses his lips together tightly, his jaw ticking as he takes in your sunken form, something he’s never seen before, and chews on his cheek, thinking.
Sighing deeply, he pockets his phone, not able to look at your texts anymore because they made him too nauseous, and moves to be closer to you.
“Come on,” he says after a moment's silence, “Let’s go.”
You peek over at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you huff out a breath of air, trying to contain your tears as you sniffle again. Your bottom lip trembles slightly, and your stomach still has a lingering ache, but there’s something else that’s causing you to be like this, and you don’t like whatever it is.
He’s waiting, his elbow budging yours, and so you heave a sigh, rubbing at your cheeks as you nudge him back slowly.
“Thank you, ‘Toru,” you murmur, and he pauses, his tongue caught between his teeth because you rarely call him by that nickname, rarely use it unless you really mean it, “For everything. And I’m sorry,” you peek over at him from above your lashes, looking back at the ground at your shoe so you couldn’t see his reaction, “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening like this-” But before you can say anything more he raises a hurried hand, cutting you off.
“You didn’t spoil my evening, love,” he says quickly, his tone soft and teetering on worried, the little title slipping out of his mouth like it was natural, and if you weren’t feeling like a pile of shit, you might have fixated on it more, his eyes roaming your anxious face.
But you insistently nod, your lips pressed together as if you were trying your hardest not to let out a pitiful cry in front of him.
“I-I did,” you voice cracks, and you rub at your eyes as some treacherous tears escape, and if only you could truly see the way he looks like he was breaking seeing you like this, “With you getting the popcorn and then me getting sick and then the s-stupid show,” and he winces because he knows you were enjoying the play, could hear your twinkling laugh and he hates it whenever you feel the need to shut down the things you like because you’re worried other people will judge you for doing so, “And…and I wish you had told Shoko o-or me about your date, I would have totally understood,” you try for a smile, your words choked and wobbly and if only you knew what you were doing as you ramble, “I’m just…I’m really sorry for everything." You finish with a quivering chuckle, your heart shaking like a leaf as you finally meet his eyes, hoping he can’t see the little shake in your breathing when you finally do.
He breathes in deeply, and you can hear the gears in his head turning. But you nudge his side again, wanting to leave it at that. You can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, but you don’t want to look.
And you’re grateful that to some extent, he understands that, even if not fully. He murmurs a gentle come on, his hand gingerly wrapping around your arm as he tugs to next to him, his warmth enveloping you as he leads the way.
—
As much as you insist, the one thing he doesn’t seem to budge on is taking you back to your dorm.
You pleaded with him, begged him not to get him sick, but he wouldn’t listen. It’s almost as if he steered you towards his building, a hand hovering over your back as he led you inside and up the elevator and to his room before you could even have the ability to ditch and run away.
“If you’re going to talk, fine, but don’t think I’m insane enough to leave you alone right now.”
That alone could have sent you into a psychosis if you weren’t so worried about puking all over his bed.
With the way his germophobic and clean tendencies forbade him from going to public restrooms, you’re stunned that he’s even standing near you with everything that has happened this night. He even lent you his old band shirt and trousers from when he was going through a phase.
It was a blur as you spun around his room, rifling through his drawers for towels and soap and things he thought you might want to use in the shower. You stood awkwardly at the foot of his bed, not sitting down on the mattress because you knew how he felt about outside clothes on his sheets, and you said nothing as he handed everything to you, shooting you a shaky smile, one that was tense because you figured he was most likely worried about you staining or ruining one of his clean things. You don’t say anything as he suddenly ducks, his knees hitting the floor as he starts undoing the laces to your shoes, mumbling something about how you bending over might not be the best for your stomach.
He was lucky enough to be in one of the newer buildings, meaning that he had a personal washroom, so he just led you to it and let you know to use the shower and to call out to him if you needed anything. He even had an extra pack of toothbrushes and boxers that he hadn’t touched that he set aside for you.
You watched as he shut the door, the water roaring behind you as it began to heat up, and you silently stripped, neatly folding your clothes as you set them to the side. You took a tentative step inside his very clean shower, letting the steaming water hit you as you stood there for a couple of minutes, reflecting.
Washing your face, scrubbing roughly at the makeup and the evening away, you feel some salty tears bite at your cheek, and you don’t even know why you’re crying right now. Well, in all honesty, you do, and that’s probably what hurts the most.
You’ve never cried over Gojo Satoru before. You’ve never felt like it was so depressingly lost where you’d need to use these muscles and these feelings that you reserve for truly important things, but it felt like tonight was a confirmation and closure all in one. It felt like you slowly came to your senses, realized that despite your wishes, it was fruitless. You just weren’t the kind of girl that he could cherish, at least, not in the way you wanted him to, and you knew it would be selfish of you to ruin any chance another girl could have of him being hers.
It took you a little longer than expected, but you feel like you were slowly gaining consciousness, the reality at hand as you turned the water off, patting yourself dry with the soft towel he had provided you.
You move carefully, brushing your teeth, pulling on the clothes he left you, as you assess yourself in the fogged-up mirror. Your eyes are a little puffy, but you can just tell him from earlier. Your voice is croaky, but you’ll just bite your words back tonight until you can go back to your place in the morning and start distancing yourself from him until your feelings are choked out. It’s time you began moving on, anyway.
Braving the other side, you take a deep breath before you carefully open the door, peeking around the corner until you see him sitting on the corner of his bed, furiously typing away until he hears the creak, looking up from across the room as you sheepishly smile.
He quickly puts his phone away, standing to his feet as he rubs his hands, not knowing what to do as he buffers.
“Was, erm, was everything good?” He motions to the bathroom, and you quickly nod, walking away as the steam from behind wraps around you, your body adjusting to the shift in temperature as your eyes stray to the couch in the corner, pillows and blankets set up in a makeshift bed.
“It was great, thank you,” you say gently, “I’m sorry, again-” But he holds a hand up, cutting you off as he insistently shakes his head.
“Really, it was nothing,” he stresses, his cheeks dusted pink, his glasses discarded on his desk.
You nod again, embarrassed, and smile stiffly, pointing to the couch as you make your way over.
“Thanks for this, too,” you say, but he seems to awkwardly shuffle, his hands behind his back, looking like he wants to say something, and your brow slightly quirks at his odd reaction.
“That’s…that’s for me,” he explains, moving away from his lofted bed as he shows you the changed sheets and the new pillow case covers, what he must have been doing in the time it took for you to shower, “You can sleep here.” He pats the mattress, and you let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head as you move closer to the couch, feeling like the worst person in the world.
“I couldn’t,” you stress, but he’s already moving closer to you, looking like he wants to move you away from the cushions, “I’ve already imposed enough. I’ll sleep here. It’s fine, really, I like couches.”
He opens his mouth and closes it, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You haven’t imposed,” he finally says, as if that’s all he took away from your rambles, and you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you wave aside his polite nature and hold your hands up.
“If I sleep on your bed after everything, I’m never going to be able to look you in the eyes again, okay?” You put it bluntly, “So I’ll take the couch, and you’ll take your bed, and it’ll be fine. Okay?”
His tongue darts out, blinking rapidly as if he’s assessing his different options, and he looks at you, to the couch, and then to the bed. He seems like he’s torn, but he figures that the next best thing is to ignore this completely, shaking his head to himself as he moves around you to the cupboards behind your body, shuffling around until he finds what he needs.
“I’m going to wash up,” he mutters, glancing briefly at you as he pulls in his towel to his chest, his new pair of clothes, and you feel your chest tighten at the sudden dismissiveness in his tone, ad if he’s given up with you, and he makes his way to the separate room, “Make yourself comfortable.” He calls over his shoulder before he shuts the door behind him, and you give it a few seconds before you wince, falling back down onto the couch as you pull a pillow to your chest and allow yourself some time to relax before he comes back.
You allow yourself some time to look around, appreciating his tidy room and the mess-free atmosphere. You can smell the lingering scent of bergamot, and you see the warmer on his desk, a candle right under it. The wall that his desk is parallel to is littered with postcards and retro movie posters (mostly Star Wars and Star Trek). There are some polaroids he has pinned up, some with Suguru and Shoko from their years in secondary school, some photos he had taken himself with his camera. His bookshelf, which is nearly leaning over with how heavy it is, is at the end of the couch, and you shift to get a better look at the books he has on his shelf.
You’re so rarely in here, especially by yourself, so you peek around, hearing the water still running, and lift from the cushions, your eyes squinting as you move closer, trying to make out the names on the spines, your curiosity getting the better of you.
Most of the shelves are full of textbooks from previous courses he had taken; therefore, most of them are science-related. Your eyes shift across the spines, seeing some books about botany and a couple about astronomy and astrophysics, a specific interest of his despite specializing in biochemistry. Notes are jammed into the empty spaces, and you make out his cursive on some of them, smiling despite yourself when you pull some of them out, making out his quick scribble from when he was either in class or studying.
The bookshelf itself is insanely tall for no reason, tall enough that you’re sure Suguru or even Satoru, in his sprawling height, would struggle reaching to top, so you have to go onto your toes, stretching your calves as you tilt your head upwards to look at some of the higher shelves, pulling some books out by placing a finger on the top of the spine, careful not to disrupt anything as you let yourself get lost in the names.
Suddenly, in the midst of all the chemistry and biology and Latin names, something familiar catches your eye, a book that was resting on its side on the highest shelf, and you struggle but can wedge yourself up on the edge of the couch to reach it.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
Your eyes widen in spite of your heavy emotions riddling your mind, and you turn it around, reading which edition and publisher it was as you scour through the pages, seeing his little citations in blue ink in the margins. You flip through the pages, each one highlighted and marked for different reasons, similar to the way you read through a book, and you close it shut, feeling like you were somehow intruding on something private as you set it back down in its initial place on the shelf until something else caught your attention.
Familiar titles and authors all paint the top level of his bookshelf, books that have nothing to do with his major or classes or even remotely with something you think he might enjoy reading, and you almost fall as you try to get closer.
A small box at the edge of the shelf piques your interest, and your lips catch between your teeth as you put all of your focus on this task, your nimble fingers moving closer, plucking it from its spot as you hold it gingerly in the palm of your hand, looking back to the bathroom as you hear the pipes groan as he turns the water off, an alarming sound, one that meant that you didn't have a lot of time left.
The box itself is also familiar, this one for more reasons than most, because you remember this box; you gave it to him for his previous birthday. amongst other little trinkets, finding it at a flea market, and thinking he could make some use of it. The wooden grain and the carvings on it were delicate, and your hold is even more careful as you unlock the little latch, the top lifting open as you peer inside.
Your eyes adjust to the sight, something you weren’t necessarily expecting, as what you can only describe as junk littered the inside of it. A ticket stub from a movie he had seen, a dried leaf, candy wrappers, spare coins. You huff a little in disappointment, your nosey nature quelled by the contents within as you rifle around a little more, knowing you should stop and sit down and act like you saw nothing when you feel a glossy texture beneath your fingertips.
Gently, you pinch it between your pointer finger and thumb, pulling it out from beneath all rubble as you hold it closer to your face, your breath catching in your throat.
It’s a polaroid of the two of you.
You remember the night well, a couple of months ago, during the summer. The four of you and a couple of mutual friends had rented a car and had gone up to a cabin, one of the many properties Satoru’s family owned, and had spent the weekend there. Suguru had insisted on setting up a fire and eating around it, and you had huddled up next to Shoko as the night got colder. You remember the voices and the laughs and the squeals as some of the friends, people you didn’t know that well, began chasing each other, and you and Shoko watched, amused. You remember how one of the boys had been carrying a jug of water, one meant for inside, when somebody bumped into him, and he tripped, and the water came falling on you. You remember letting out a small laugh, shocked and forgiving as you assured the stranger that it was okay, shivering, nonetheless, as Shoko laughed uncontrollably.
But above all, you remember how Satoru hurried over from wherever he was, his stare worried that you were hurt, everything shifting when he saw the playful glint in your eyes, the fireplace illuminating your features in red, yellow and orange hues as you shrugged his worries off, his hands on your elbows, steadying you as Suguru took a photo of the moment, of your head thrown back in a laugh and his eyebrows pulled into an anxious line while his lips pulled into a gentle smile, the stars twinkling in the background as he steadied you to your feet.
You distantly recall hearing the click and asking Suguru about the photo, but hearing him say something along the lines of the lighting being too dark, but clearly that was a lie because you were holding the small photo in your hand, staring at it with no problem.
Before you can spend more time thinking about his junk box and what the hell this photo was doing in it, you heard some shuffling on the other side of the bathroom, the door clicking open as you scramble to put the box back, nearly tripping as you jump down, going back to where you were seated on the couch in a flash, appearing to look nonchalant as he stepped out.
You don’t let your eyes linger too long on the way his shirt stretched tightly across his chest, or the way that the water has caused the fabric to slightly stick to his arms. He shakes his hair into a towel, ringlets of water falling as he pushes his hair back. You also try not to fawn too much over his mismatched pajamas, or how his trousers have prints of lightsabers in different colors all over them.
“Hey,” he calls out gruffly, rubbing at the back of his neck as he tosses his towel into the hamper, his feet padding over to his desk as he checks the clock and then his phone for any notifications. He sighs, and your throat is dry, heart hammering in your chest as you realize a grave mistake.
In your haste to put everything back, the careful clutch you had on the photo had appeared nonexistent, and you had, for some reason, made the blunder of still holding the photograph of the two of you resting in the palm of your hand.
His back is still to you, and you swallow thickly, shuffling across the couch as you try to deposit it onto one of the nearer shelfs, hoping that if he were to see it he would think it had mistakenly fallen out or something less drastic, but his ears turn towards your movement, looking over his broad shoulders at the way you scramble to dispose of the film.
“What are…?” His eyes pierce yours, and you sheepishly snap around to look at him, your hand going behind you as you shake your head, acting confused as his head tilts to the side, jumping from your seat at the edge of the cushion to your leg, angled towards his bookshelf.
“I was just looking at your books,” you quickly state, trying to cover your ass as lips purse together to give you a knowing look, a white brow rising so high that it disappears in his hairline, one calling you out on your obvious bullshit.
“Hm,” he hums, taking a step closer to you, his skin still glowing from the shower as he makes his way to where you were sitting, towering over you as his arms cross deliciously across his chest, “Then what do you have behind you?”
You feign innocence, blinking as you shake your head, acting dumb as you shrug.
“I,” you scoff, leaning back into one of the pillows as you shrug, “I don’t have anything behind me.”
“Right,” he drawls out, his voice slightly deeper, intimidatingly so as he crouches down a little until his face is to face with you, his fingers moving to poke at your arms, twisting at an odd angle to hide behind your back, “Then you wouldn’t mind if I gave you some medicine, yeah? Something that requires both hands?”
Damn him.
You shake your head, swallowing as you shoot him a shaking smile.
“Not at all,” you stress, shifting uncomfortable as he nods, his eyes raking over your face one last time as he moves to his desk, pulling a drawer out, his medicine drawer, you deduce, and watch as he pulls out a bottle that seems to promise helping with stomach aches, and he turns it over, reading the label until he seems satisfied.
He strolls back to where you’re seated, holding the medicine bottle out towards you as he patiently waits.
You shoot him a fake smile, biting back annoyance as you shift awkwardly, wringing out a hand from underneath your body, the one that’s not holding onto the photograph, as you take the bottle from his outstretched hands. You stare at it, realizing that he’s waiting for you to open it, and if it wasn’t for the unimpressed look on his face, you’d almost wager that he was amused.
“Something wrong?” He asks, fully knowing the answer, and you shoot him a glare.
“No,” you bite back, your other hand moving slowly, careful not to crumble or tear the film as you place it under your thigh, showing him both of your hands as you twist the cap of the medicine bottle off, “See?”
He nods, still unbelieving of your little tactic, as he takes the bottle away from you. You watch as he moves to set it down on the table, assessing the situation as he moves down in one swift motion, not giving you any time to understand what was going on as he loops one hands under your knees, another across your back as he lifts you up and over his shoulders like you genuinely weighed nothing more than a sack of flour and you screamed in horror at the rudeness of everything.
“Freak!” You shout, your face looking at his muscular back as he chuckles, not seeing anything yet as you try to kick his face, “This is so degrading, put me down!” You scream, horrified and mortified as he pinches your calf that was near his chest.
“Stop squirming,” he chides, but his voice is anything but chiding as he swivels around, your body jerking sideways as your head drops, motion sickness from already feeling a little off from earlier tonight, and you weakly punch his back, groaning.
“I’m going to puke all over you,” you threaten, but he just chuckles, shaking his head as he pretends to drop you, only to catch you last minute, his chest shaking with the sound, and you go to snap at him again,
But you feel it, hear it the moment he sees the polaroid you had taken.
He goes tense, his grip on you tightening a little bit out of shock, and he’s suddenly silent. You wince, turning around, hoping he could take the hint and set you down, and he finally does, carefully setting you on the ground as he bends, picking up the photograph from where it had fallen onto the floor, and staring blankly at it.
Your hands clench, chest tightening as his eyes flicker from it to you, his face unreadable as his jaw clenches slightly.
Nobody speaks for a moment, the room suddenly as tense as it was when you first entered, and you watch as he puts the photograph face down on a random shelf, turning back to you as he sighs deeply.
“Were you…Were you going through my things?”
The question shakes you, and your mouth parts as you clamp it shut.
“N-no,” you finally say, “Well, no, not really, but I guess…I don’t…I was,” your head drops to your hands in mortification as you motion weakly to the bookshelf, “I was only looking at your books.” You mutter weakly, not even able to look at him as you keep your stare trained on the books and their titles.
“I didn’t mean to see it, but…” You trail off, thousands of emotions racing through you as you try to deny it in your mind, sadness from before, anger with yourself, and suddenly feel vexation towards him for no particular reason as your eyes snap to his, “God, why do you care? It’s just a photo! I didn’t…I didn’t mean to look, but I saw that thing I gave you, and I had thought you would’ve tossed it away by now, and I just wanted to see what you’d keep in there and…yeah, fuck, okay, I looked! I’m sorry, okay? But…I mean, you keep it as a junk box anyway, it’s not like it’s…like it’s an heirloom!” You’re trying to ration and reason and trying to justify your clearly immoral actions as you ramble again, a terrible trait of yours, as he just takes it, takes your anger and your slew of words and your hurt as you feel your eyes water for no reason again as you hug your arms to yourself.
He says nothing for another moment, his eyes dark and piercing.
And then he moves.
His arm reaches upwards, up to the shelf, up behind your head to where the box was resting on the top shelf, and he slowly brings his hand down, your heart in your throat as he nearly throws the lid open, beginning to pull everything out one by one.
“This,” he’s holding the ticket stub, “This is from tonight.”
Your hands instantly drop to your sides as the anger fades and utter confusion floods your senses.
…huh?
You had just looked at the box; how did you not notice? But you look closer at it, the date and the row and seat number nearly the same as the ticket stub you had thrown away after leaving the theater in a hurry, and your eyes flee up towards him, his chest heaving as he continues.
“This is from when we went to the beach,” he pulls out a chipped seashell, and you recognize the pattern instantly, remembering the one time the four of you had gone to the shoreline, a seashell you had picked up and thought was interesting, showing it to him before Shoko called you away, but you don’t have any time to compute that as he pulls out the next time.
“This is from the candy you gave me during a study session we had,” he pulls out a wrinkled wrapper, “This is the hair tie you left at my place and forgot,” he has a simple black elastic band sitting in the palm of his hand, but he could very much so be holding your pittering pattering heart the more he continues, his voice quivering slightly, and you’ve never heard him ramble like this, ramble like you.
“This is the leaf that was stuck in my hair that you pulled out,” he admits quietly, holding up the dried leaf from the time you had been walking next to him in the fall, the trees shaking in the wind, giggling at his white hair littered with the colorful leaves, “These are the coins you gave me because I didn’t have any change,” he’s holding up the spare sterlings you had lent him when he wanted some ice cream but forgot his card at home, and your eyes move up and down, a strange thumping sound in your ears because you feel like you’re about to faint, and he slows to a stop, his cheeks flushed and his hands shaking as his hand fills with all of the things you have given him over the past two years, things that a normal person would have thrown away or used or given back.
“This…” his lips tremble as he shuts them for a second, looking unlike the person you’ve begun to know so deeply as his fingers wrap around something, pulling out a neatly folded white napkin, unused, as he takes in a steadying breath, “This is the, erm, the napkin you lent me. From the night we first met.”
The box is empty now, but the room fills with moments in time, moments that you would cherish in the deepest parts of your mind before you went to bed, and pretended like they were fleeting and didn't matter so that you could face him bravely the next time you saw him. Moments that you thought he treated like normal moments in time that would pass and would never be remembered again, moments that you didn’t think he would…hold onto.
Not the way you did.
“It’s not…junk,” he admits thickly, “For me it’s not.”
He stops, taking in a deep breath as he pushes his hair away from his face, carefully putting everything back in the box, including the photograph, as he sets it down, turning back to face your stunned expression.
“Look, have you ever seen me without my glasses?”
You blink. Realizing that he’s waiting on you to answer, you blank before shaking your head slowly, and he nods.
“Right, right, well, I used to wear contacts. All the time. Ask Suguru o-or Shoko but…ever since you said that you like the way glasses look, I…I don’t know, I kept wearing them, hoping you’d…” he trails off, his cheeks completely red, the tips of his ears a bright pink as he ducks his head down, scratching his nape sheepishly, whispering, “Hoping you’d maybe say it again.”
Your eyes go wide, and you blink owlishly, swearing you look fish-adjacent with the way you can only give him this look on repeat as he takes your silence as an okay for him to go on a rare nervous tangent of his own.
“When I was little, my grandfather taught me how to tie his tie. He said that I should learn how to do it by myself so that I wouldn't need any help when I grow up.”
You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t get angry at your silence, but simply offers you a small, worried smile.
“I’ve gotten pretty good at it,” he confesses with a farce laugh, something empty and shaky, "But you always ask to tie them, and…I always let you. You’re the only person I feel comfortable with; the only person who it doesn’t feel like,” he shivered, wincing slightly as if his skin was prickling at the thought of other people touching him the way you do, “The only person who can touch me and I feel…okay.”
“I have a shelf of all the books you’ve talked about,” he persists, motioning upwards, and you slowly look around to where The Count of Monte Cristo was sitting, along with all the other books you’ve raved about in the past, thinking he’d only listen and give you kind comments, not knowing that he had gone home and sat down and read them all afterwards, “I stopped drinking whenever we go out together because you said you don’t really like the smell of alcohol on people’s breaths. I…” he rakes his hand through his hair again, a nervous fidget of his as he looks pleadingly at you, “I have my spot on Suguru’s couch because your spot is right next to it.”
“And our friends tell me that I’m not crazy, that…that I might have a chance,” he motions a shaking hand between the two of you, and you allow yourself this time to blink again, “But, I don’t know,” his head ducks as he chokes back some tears, and your eyes widen even more, your eyebrows up in your hair at this point because you’ve been rendered speechless, “It’s like any time I try to get closer to you, you leave or immediately want to be anywhere else or seem uncomfortable and I don’t want you to feel that way, especially because of me.”
When he looks up, his eyes are glassy, looking like a stormy ocean, and you feel tears prickle at yours, your breath lodged in your throat as you try to pinch yourself, swearing that you were in some vision, but this is real, and he’s not stopping, saying the words you’ve only dreamt of.
“I know I’m not really…the kind of person that you’d usually go for,” he explains, his voice dim, “I’m not good with literary nuances or dissecting medieval texts. I can’t read the way you read, and I’m not good with understanding people the way you do, but…I want to be. I want to be that, I want to be good for you.”
Your mouth is wide open as you gape at him, trying to make sense of the words that you could only imagine as you stared silently at him saying to you, saying them to you here. The two of you don’t say much for a second, your eyes blinking rapidly as your mind travels faster than the speed of sound, and you realize that he’s not lying or trying to make you laugh. He’s not confessing his love for another girl, but instead clutching his chest because it felt like your silence was leading up to a personal rejection, and you can barely muster up any actual words as you surge towards him, stopping his rambling as your arms wrap around his neck, knees knocking against his as your lips slam against his.
Your heart plummets as you feel him still, his arms still at his sides as his eyes widen in shock, and you feel like you’ve completely screwed things up, going to step away before his hands shoot upwards, wrapping around your waist and legs as he hoists you up, his lips moving against yours hungrily.
“You’re so…so stupid,” you mutter in between breaths, his lips parting yours, soft and gentle and fast and desperate as they chase the way you taste, wanting to savor the plushness of yours as you mewl at the way his fingers dig into your soft skin, moving you effortlessly towards his bed as the two of you smile against each other, laughing in the air as your back hits the mattress. He fidgets with his glasses, pushing them up with his middle finger, coming a little loose after everything.
“Yeah?” He murmurs, happy, giddy, his eyes bright and alive and electric as he nips at your bottom lip, his own shining with spit as he ducks down again, pressing kisses to your face, and you feel lightheaded, “Tell me how I’m stupid, baby.”
You groan, lightly hitting his chest as he chuckles lightly, his kisses moving to your cheek, across your nose, as your smile turns bright enough to power the sun for the rest of eternity if it were to die in this very moment.
“I,” you huff, your chest burning and your hands tangled in his hair, fisting his shirt as you bring him in impossibly closer, “I’ve had this…debilitating crush on you ever since I saw you,” you admit quietly, and he pauses, his sunset dusted cheeks turning into a wide grin as he huffs out a laugh and push his face away from your as you turn away in discomfiture, “And I’ve done everything to get you to notice me. I’ve embarrassed myself like, twenty times a day, hoping you’d look my way.”
Satoru raises a slender brow, and you have the urge to pull him down by the collar, pressing your lips to his as he happily obliges, his tongue poking out to tease yours as he turns to an even bigger taunting menace as he pulls away.
“I can’t stop looking at you,” he mumbles shyly, ducking down as he kisses your throat, and you shift slightly to give him more access, your breath catching in your lungs as his kisses turn into him sucking in a patch of skin, licking it over when he’s satisfied it’s going to mark. “I could barely focus on the play tonight because I kept looking over.”
You let out a giggle, curling his soft strands of hair around your finger as he glances up to see your smile, pressing a chaste kiss as if he wanted to taste the way your unabashed happiness felt.
“And I try to sound smarter whenever you’re around,” you admit, and he snorts against the skin of your cheek again, enjoying how plush and soft it was, biting it as you squeal, but it was never hard enough to hurt, just experimental, and he laughs, “And you never even acknowledged the number of times I’d bring up a science-y article I had spent the entire night analyzing just for you to ask me about my stupid book report.” You pout, and he attempts to kiss it off of you, his hands roaming the exposed skin of your waist and stomach, hot against your cold self, and he rolls his eyes.
“That’s only because I was having tiny aneurysms whenever you’d do that,” he reasons, his face morphing into something sweet and gentle and something so entirely new and…yours that you wish you could take a picture of it, “And I wanted you to know that I remembered the things you told me.”
You throw a hand over your face, not wanting him to see the gleefulness on your face, but he just wrings your hands away, slotting his long legs in between yours as he lets out another joyous laugh.
“Come on,” he insists, nudging his nose against your jaw, “How else am I stupid?”
You let out an exaggerated groan, biting your lip as you try to think through your muddled thoughts.
“You…you…you kept only the ridiculous things I gave you!” You argue, and he moves upwards slightly, giving you a pointed look, as if you were offending his lifeline or treasures, “I’ve given so many things and…” But you trail off, feeling his large hand gently wrap around your face, turning it to the side so you could see his room from his point of view.
“Look closely,” he softly urges, and your eyes trail across the walls, the shelves, the tabletops, “This room is full of you.”
And he’s right.
The postcards he has up are the ones you gave the three of them from the time you had gone to Paris with your family over the summer, picking out individual ones you thought each of them would like. Vintage telescopes and microscopes you imagined him enjoying, but never enough to actually put them up. The music box that plays the theme of A New Hope, a simple melody from his favorite movie that you had also gotten for his birthday, sits on his bedside table. The books you had found on sale about plant biology, a little thing you thought he might like, rest on top of his bookshelf.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, and he chuckles at your quiet reaction, dipping down to kiss you again, wanting to nudge those sounds from you, even if he has to take them like this.
“Is this why you’d scare off any guy who came up to me?” You ask, but you already know the answer, just wanting to see the look on his face as he groaned, pinching your side as you giggle at his antics.
“I thought I was being so obvious,” he murmured against your lips, his tongue roaming through your mouth as you part it slightly for him, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling, a string of spit connecting the two of you as he pulls away, “Everyone could see how badly I wanted you.”
You shrug, feeling sluggish from his movements.
“I didn’t,” you argue faintly, and he looks up, white lashes fluttering as he grins, kissing the tip of your nose as he smiles.
“Guess I didn’t either,” he whispers teasingly, “Guess we’re both stupid for that.”
You go to fight back, but you let out an embarrassing moan at the way his hands travel across your stomach, pushing your shirt upwards slightly as your back arches upwards to chase the feeling. His hands are large and travel expertly across your body, as if he’s mapped out the small things that make you squirm and the things you itch for, as if he’s spent the past two years studying you instead of his dusty textbooks, and the thought alone makes you shake with anticipation.
“Can’t believe I waited this long,” he murmurs against the skin of your stomach, kissing the plain of it as you shake with an uncontrollable giggle, “Why didn’t you say anything, hm? Did you like tormenting me like this?”
The question makes you stop.
Suddenly, everything from before comes rushing back.
It seems like it sets off alarm bells in your head, as if you had been functioning through a rose-tinted fog for the past couple of minutes, and suddenly reality hits you because…you haven’t told him for a reason. The months and months of pining after him weren’t just because you liked torturing yourself, but because of your frankly very real fears of rejection for more reasons than one.
After a second, you huff, hands clenching by your sides as you feel a surge of feelings, deep ones that you’ve choked on and tried to hide, and he notices the instant way you tense up, stopping his movements as he glances upwards at you.
“Do you want to stop?” He asks gently, tugging the hem of your (his) shirt back down to cover your stomach, and you let out a delicate laugh, a pensive look on your face as you chew worriedly on your face.
Sighing, you rub a hand down your face, sitting upright with your back resting on his headboard, and turn to look back at his desk, feeling the weight of his stare more than before as heat licks at your cheeks.
“What about…what about the others?”
The question rings through the room, bouncing off the walls, and his brows furrow in slight confusion as you still refuse to tear your eyes away from his desk, your hands resting in your lap, and he moves slowly, his large hands encompassing yours, unraveling your fingers, alleviating the tension you didn’t know was building.
“What others?” Satoru asks after a moment, unjudgmentally, tenderly, and caring, patient as you huff out another shaky laugh, shrugging your shoulders as they fall in a heavy drop, your chest rattling with the emotions you had been trying to kill off from the past two years.
You chew on the inside of your cheek, feel his fingers against yours, and your gaze flickers to his before going back to focusing on something to the side.
“This is gonna sound stupid,” you preface, but his thumb presses into the palm of your hand, a small sign that he wasn’t going to judge anything that came out of your mouth because he just showed you that he kept the first napkin you had ever given him.
“But…” you drop your head into your hands, your voice muffled as you continue, “I see the girls that come up to you. O-or your ex. Vi…right?” You peek up, and his eyes are slightly squinted, nodding slowly, as if he wants you to make your point before he says something, “And they’re just so…ugh, I don’t know…perfect? Like, they seem perfect for you. Either they’re stunning, or they’re in your major, or they’re both, or just…so different, and I feel like I’m…not…that.”
He blinks slowly, piecing this together with the fact that he asked you why you hadn’t spoken up sooner, and his lips tug upwards in a little grin, one that makes you want to roll your eyes if not for the storm brewing inside of you, and he tugs you closer, one of his hands wrapping around your waist as he drops his head onto your chest.
“I think you’ve got it backwards,” he says against you, his voice vibrating off of you, and you feel it shake you to your core, his hand moving up and down the expanse of your back as you hand unconsciously move upwards, back to his soft white locks, “Because none of those girls could measure up to my perfect girl.”
You stop, glad he can’t see the large smile on your face as you head falls backwards, thumping against the wood as your chest swells with joy, and when he looks up, his goofy grin could match yours, and you push him away by the cheek, but he just moves, kissing the palm of your hand as you laugh softly.
“You’re so stupid,” you repeat, but he knows you’re only masking the giddiness you feel as he nods against your hand, his eyes shimmering and bright as he sits up a little straighter, nearly encompassing you with his body as he leans closer, his nose nudging yours as the two of you smile against each other's lips.
“You’ve got that right,” he whispers in the small space of air between you, “I’m such a fool for you.”
You decide then that you don’t give him any more time to talk or say something else that could turn your insides to mush, so you tug him down by his neck, his lips curling upwards as they press against yours.
He seems like he’s experimenting with kissing you, as if he knows you’re learning in real time, and has no qualms taking it slow. He lets you take the lead when you want, lets you dart your tongue out slightly, and opens his mouth to welcome you in. When you get a little shyer, he takes the initiative, hands roaming around your hips, pulling you into his lap as you mewl him again. When he could tell you needed some air, he’d pull away, kissing the corners of your lips, your cheeks that he loved so much, the edge of your brows that would pull into the cutest furrows whenever you were confused, and cherished you the way he’d been aching for ever since he saw you at that stupid English department banquet.
You chase the feeling of his skin on yours, the way his fingers feel when they trace your features, the way his hands run up your arms, the way his palm cups your jaw. Your hands seem to have a mind of their own, his as well, as they drop down to the drawstring of his trousers, running up the smooth and hard skin of his abs, feeling greedy as you run a finger down his delicious v-line. You feel him shuddering beneath you, and you grin evilly, your mouth water as you untie his pants, your fingers running over the white tufts of hair of his happy trail, and your shuffle around a little bit to help him as he tugs up the hem of his old band shirt that you donned, and you almost let out a whine when they suddenly stop, lashes fluttering open to see what he was going to do next.
His forehead drops onto yours, one of his arms pulling you closer to his chest, the other still cradling your face, and you see the way his face has gone pink, a light hue that you rarely see him in.
“Just so you know, this, em, this isn’t how I wanted things to go.”
You let out a stark laugh, your hands pressing against his as your fingers curl around his hair, tilting your head slightly to the side.
“Yeah? How were things supposed to go?” You ask, trying not to sound too selfishly drunk on him as he shrugs, his lips pressing together as he divulges you in his own fantasies, things he’d only think about when it was the two of you together and he’d be wanting to confess his undying love for you while you’d be rambling on about John Milton or another one of your other favorite authors.
He looks shy, and you want to bite him, watching him gather up some of the courage you had kissed away as he takes one of your hands away from his arms, playing with your fingers as he pushes some of his tousled hair away from his face.
“Well, I was planning on telling you how crazy I am about you after this whole day I had planned out,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck as he turns a little red, “I had, erm, bought tickets to the museum you’ve been wanting to go to,” he says, his eyes flickering from your face to the side as his head drops, and you nudge it back up as he chuckles, “The one displaying the original copies of those old books you like so much.”
He swallows, taking a deep breath, and then continues.
“And I wanted it to just be us, nobody else. I would have obviously read up on all the authors on exhibit, so I wouldn’t look like a total idiot when, or if, you had come, and I’d spend the entire time sweating and hoping you couldn’t see.” You giggle, and he squeezes your hand, rubbing his thumb up and down the back of it in a soothing gesture. Your eyes drop, urging him gently to continue because you feel like you’re in a dream, and if he stops, you’re going to wake up from it.
“Afterwards, I’d take you to this restaurant I’ve heard is good,” he grins boyishly, tongue poking in between his lips, “And when we were done, I’d walk you back to your place and…tell you that I liked you then.”
You can’t stop smiling, and he can’t stop either.
“Just…just that you liked me?” you tease, humming as he shifts a little, his arms wrapping around your waist, “Not to be…selfish, or anything, but I feel like this way was so much more romantic with your little box of trinkets and your rambling.” He groans, pinching you lightly as you snicker, but he ultimately shakes his head, smoothing over the place he pinched with his soothing touch.
“No, no,” he mutters, his face determined, as if he was recounting everything he had planned to say, “I’d tell you how much I liked the way you look when you start talking about your day,” his thumb brushes across your cheek, running across the soft hair of your brows, “And how much I like the way you care about everything you do and everybody around you. I’d tell you that I really like it when you tell me about the book you just finished, and how much I admire your kind heart. I’d tell you that I…I like how wonderfully weird you are, and how I wish I could be half as interesting as you are on a regular day. I would have told you how you’re always the first person I look for when I enter a room. And…” his shoulders rise and drop as he pulls you impossibly closer, “I would have really hoped that Suguru and Shoko were right about this because I’d be…a little embarrassed if not.”
You hum, pretending to think as you twirl his white strands around your pointer finger even though you feel like you’re on fire and you can’t breathe and everything feels like it’s burning in the best way possible, try not to freak out because the guy you’ve been in love with basically just admitted the most amazing things to you, so you take a steadying breath, your head tilting as you smile.
“And what if I didn’t want you to stop?” You feel heat blossom across your lungs when you hear his breathing hitch, “After…after you’d do all of that?”
He nods, surveying his different options as his blue eyes turn into a slightly different shade, as if they were dependent upon his emotions, and his hands turn a little heavier as they roam across your stomach, up across the skin of your ribcage, and they stop right under your bra.
“Hmm, well, I would’ve have asked you what you wanted to happen next,” his smile is wicked as his face drops down to your neck, leaving wet kisses until he ends up at your collarbone, right at the neck of your shirt as you nearly whine, feeling his teeth scrape just barely over the soft skin, “What is it you want, baby? What else would you want me to do?”
Your breathing stutters, and you arch your back a little, letting his nimble fingers fiddle with the clasp of your bra, giving you enough time to turn him down, but you don’t; you want, no, need, for him to continue.
“I,” your breath lodges in your throat when he opens the clasps, helping you tug the straps down until your old ratty bra, the comfortable one that you were sure wouldn’t matter being worn tonight because you never imagined something like this happening, but he doesn’t care, setting it to the side as he wait patiently, menacingly, for you to find your words, “I’d probably ask you to…to come up.”
He groans lightly, a mix between a guttural moan and a laugh.
“Yeah?” It’s not so much a question, but a confirmation as you nod, shivering when his hands move back upwards, your chest heaving as you feel his nimble and long fingers cup your tits, his fingers running over your nipples as your head falls to his shoulders, “Then what? What would I have done after I came up?”
You go down, you want to say tauntingly, but don’t have the willpower as his thumb flicks over a nipple, and you whine.
“Eh, you’d, uh, I’d, we, would probably end up on…on my bed and I’d probably be wearing something cuter than this,” you try to say indifferently, and he rolls his eyes because you could be wearing faux feathers glued to the entirety of your body and he’d still think you were the most beautiful woman to ever exist, “And I’d probably be a little more confident telling you what I,” you gulp audibly, your cheeks heating up, “What I want, seeing that you wouldn’t have just seen me at my virtual lowest hours earlier.” And he chuckles, and it feels right, feels like this was meant to happen as his hands fall from your breasts, trailing down your stomach as you shuffle a little, moving to lie back on his pillow as he shuffles to, situating his body in between your thighs, waiting for your next command.
Satoru’s grin turns soft, like he knows what it is you want, but needs to hear you say it for him to feel okay doing the thing that’s setting him alight. His hand moves, taking yours into his again and intertwining his fingers between yours.
“… what do you want, love?” His voice is thick, and it settles deep in your bones as your head falls, squeezing his fingers as you sheepishly mutter something, and he barely hears you, nudging you to say it a little louder as you groan in embarrassment, an arm flying over your face as your head falls back, not able to look him in the eyes as you timidly whisper;
“For you, like…to do stuff,” you murmur so quietly you think that your lips barely even moved, “To…to eat me out or….or whatever.”
When he says nothing for a moment, you peek between your fingers and see his cheeks flushed, a shit-eating grin on his face as he sets his chin down on your stomach, his glasses crooked as his brow arched. He moves, gingerly tugs your arm away from your face, and sits down by your side as he presses a chaste kiss to your stomach.
“Yeah….yeah, I think I can ‘eat you out or whatever’,” he says, and you groan ever louder, flicking his forehead as he chuckles, taking your words as the sign to go, go, go, his fingers moving excruciatingly slow as they start to tug the waistband of your pants and boxers (his, again), down, looking up at you for a little assistance, and you lift your hips, allowing him to slide them down fully.
You blink, relaxing that you’re completely bare right now, but he doesn't give you any time to be self-conscious as his pupils seem to blow up with lust, hungrily eating up the way your pussy is glistening with want and need, his cheeks a fiery red as his chest moves in a large exhale, like the air had been knocked from him.
His hand raises upwards to take his glasses off, but you make a sudden movement, as if your body was functioning on autopilot, when your hands wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything else.
“Don’t,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “K-keep them on.”
His white lashes flutter slightly, and he gives you one of his boyish smiles that you love so much, his teeth shining as he presses his lips to the inside of your wrist, nodding slowly as he pushes his glasses back on.
“If I knew that waiting so long for you to tell me that you liked my glasses would have been when I’m about to do this, I think I could have waited another couple of years more.” He says honestly, dropping himself down between your thighs, and your eyes flutter shut, head falling back on the pillow as you feel his warm hands slowly move up and up and up, parting you ever so slightly so he could situate himself better between them.
Your mouth parts when you feel his fingers move on the outside of your lips, collecting the slick, and you hold back a wanton moan, your hands flying up to his hair, tugging him closer. You watch as he pushes his glasses up by using his shoulder to move the frames up, and when his lips suddenly latch onto your clit you actually think you’ve gone insane.
His tongue darts out, moaning like a whore when he finally gets to taste your saccharine taste, his eyes rolling back as he parts your lips, the sound greedy as he moves a thumb to circle your clit, moving down to run his tongue selfishly up and down your pussy for his own pleasure, needing to feel you or else he was going to go mad.
“You taste,” his voice is muffled as he pants against your cunt, using a finger to move up and down the slit, “You taste sweet,” he said it like he was startled, like he had spent hours and hours studying female anatomy and how to pleasure a girl and what to do, but never could have expected this unexpected turn, to taste you and realize that you were sweeter and more delicious than any candy he’s ever eaten before, “Why do you taste so…so sweet?”
You would laugh if you weren’t so turned on, saying some jumbled-up words as he ducks down again, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thumb goes a little faster on your swollen nub, his long pointer finger rubbing at the outside of your pussy, getting ready to push it in.
When he finally does, your walls instantly clamp down on it, and you moan, not expecting the stretch, and he gives you some time to adjust. It’s not like you’re a prude, you’ve at least attempted this before, but your fingers aren’t like Gojo Satoru’s, and you feel like you could come just from this.
“Feeling good, baby?” He questions, and you hurriedly nod, hearing him chuckle.
“Yeah,” you stutter out, your teeth clenched as you feel his finger start to move out, and then your mouth falls open as he starts to slowly pump it in and out of you, a mind-bending pace that has you clenching around him, “Feels good.”
He nods, taking it as confirmation to keep going, and he switches between a finger and his tongue, darting them inside of you. He keeps his pressure on your clit, and you grow impossibly wetter when he leans down to lay a cute little kiss on it, his glasses slowly fogging up.
Gojo Satoru eats you out like you’re his last meal, like he’s been living like Tantalus for his twenty years alive, and finally, the fruit tree doesn’t move from his grasp, and he’s able to divulge like the greedy and sinful man he always has been.
Sometimes the hand that’s occupying your clit moves upwards, pulling his old shirt up and over the expanse of your torso to see your supple skin shake beneath his large palms, and he cups your tits, groaning like a slut when he feels your nipples pebble, and he pinches them between his pointer finger and thumb, twisting a little to feel you squeal, and he grins, softening his touch as he smooths it over, moving back down to your nub as if nothing happened.
You watch from hooded eyes, watch the way his eyes close, like he’s savoring your taste. You see the way he slowly ruts into the mattress, like he was getting off to this, and the thought itself makes you gush even more.
When he’s satisfied that you’ve adjusted to his one finger, he decides to slip another one in, and the size alone makes you whine, the stretch something that causes tears to dart in the corner of your eyes in delicious pain.
“Hmm,” you moan, one of your hands fisting the sheets, the other tangled in his white hair as you guide him up and down, and you can swear you feel him smiling against you, as if your reactions were a symphony to his ears, “It’s not like I really have a metric but…you’re good at this.”
Satoru chuckles, looking up at you, and the sight knocks the air out of your lungs. His cheeks are flushed, wet in the dim lighting of the room, his glasses crooked, and his hair a mess, but he looks positively radiant as his smile flashes bright.
“I hope I am,” his voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it, and it vibrates against your pussy, “I’ve been studying.”
Despite feeling lightheaded, his statement chased you to come to your senses a bit, sitting up on your elbows as you looked at him through furrowed brows.
“Studying?” You parrot, and he nods eagerly, his thumb putting pressure on your sensitive and swollen clit as your mouth falls open in a silent moan, barely able to keep your eyes open as he explains.
“Mhm,” he hums, his nose, the beautiful nose that you want to kiss all over, rubs expertly on the hood of your clit as he presses chaste, sloppy kisses to your cunt, “I read all these posts and books and papers about what the best way to eat a girl out,” his voice is hoarse, licking up and down your syrupy inner walls, his two fingers never stopping their relentless pace as something deep in your stomach begins to build up, “Brushed up on some….anatomy and the sorts.”
You let out a breathless laugh.
Because of course he had.
“You,” your mouth clamps shut when he hits the spongy part deep inside of you that makes your toes curl, your lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks, and you can’t talk correctly but make the attempt to, barely above a whisper as you mutter, “Y-you’re insane.”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it as his thumb swirls in figure eight patterns on your clit, his pointer and middle fingers curling upwards, and you can’t really find it in yourself to chide him when he’s making you feel heavenly.
You feel like you’re unraveling at his skillful hands, and it definitely doesn’t help that whenever you have the guts to open your eyes you’re met with the view of Satoru loosing himself in your cunt, as with each second that passed, he was going just as crazy as you were, and it felt like that familiar feeling of an orgasm building, but unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.
It’s almost like he knows, because he seems to go faster, switching between licking and his fingers, and your grip on him tightens, and he moans, welcoming the sting.
“Come on,” he presses, urging, needing you to finish around him, to taste your relief on his tongue, “Come on, baby, I know you wanna come.”
You nod, sweat dotting your forehead, your chest heaving up and down with labored breaths, that knot inside of you tightening as your thighs clamp down around his head, your walls pulsing around his fingers.
It gradually builds, but that feeling suddenly snaps, and you jolt, your back arching, moving into him, his fingers never stopping, his thumb and lips on your clit, suctioning in a perfect way that sends you over the edge. You clench tightly around him, creaming, spasming as you gush, your eyes rolling back in your head as you let out the quietest but sweetest moan, and when you feel your orgasms slow to a dull pulse, you fall back onto his mattress, limp as he doesn’t stop instantly.
Instead, he lets his fingers slow down carefully, as if you’d get immediate withdrawal from the feeling of having him inside of you. He kisses your clit once, then twice, and pulls away, connected by a string of spit, slick and your cum, and when you finally have the energy to wring your eyes open, the sight of him wrecked form eating you out makes you even more wet.
You take a few moments to catch your breath, your chest heaving up and down, your hand falling away from his soft locks as it sprawls across your stomach, and you stare helplessly at the ceiling.
Blinking owlishly, you awkwardly scootch upwards until you’re resting on the back of the headboard, and you watch as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, grinning coyly as he moans at the taste of you, and if you could, you’d pinch him, but you just weakly push him with your foot, looking away abashedly.
“Nasty,” you whisper hoarsely, your voice gone, and he coos, crawling towards you, bringing his face towards yours as he nudges his nose with yours, and you’re weak, giving in as he hungrily presses his wet lips to yours.
You can taste yourself on him, and you mewl, feeling his tongue in your mouth, licking inside of you, wanting you to enjoy what he just enjoyed, and your shaking hands grip around his neck. He pulls away a little bit, biting your bottom lip before kissing it, and he rubs a loving thumb across your cheek, his eyes turning gentle as he peers at you through those ocean eyes through those stunning glasses you adore so much.
You don’t trust your voice, so instead you let your hands unravel from his nape, moving upwards towards the expensive frames, straightening them on his nose, making sure they rest correctly on his pink ears, and he watches silently, reverently, as you push him back gently by the chin, making sure that they looked right on the bridge of his nose.
“Hmm, looks better,” you whisper affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose like you’ve always wanted, and that seems to push him over the edge, quickly wrapping his arms around your midsection as he pulls you closer to him, falling back on the bed as he tugs you into his chest, his head resting in the crook of your neck.
At that moment, you feel it, and your eyes blink rapidly from their hazy state as his hard-on pressed against your thigh.
“Hey,” you murmur, poking his side, but he doesn’t seem like budging, his overwhelming heat and size covering you, his thick arms not moving from caging you to him, and you can’t even wrangle free, “‘Toru, what about you?”
He doesn’t even lift his head, just hums against the skin of your neck, his lips busy leaving hickeys all over it, ones you’re going to deeply regret in the morning but can’t seem to care right now except for the boner you’re sure is deeply uncomfortable.
“What about me?” He dreamily replies, his voice barely audible, and you roll your eyes. From this angle, you can see the way his shirt is riding up, his abs on display, the veins leading downward prominent, and his trail of white hair is calling your name.
You wedge your hand in between your bodies as you press against his cock, the movement causing him to yelp and shudder, whimpering against you as you snicker, sure that now he’s going to give you some more undivided attention.
He sits up a little bit, resting his head on his fist, his elbow on his pillow as he peers down at you, his brow slightly cocked, not looking impressed with being tormented like this after treating you so kindly by giving you the best orgasm of your life.
“Not nice,” he reprimands warmly, poking your side as you yelp, his finger much more sturdy than yours, “You’re not really supposed to grab dicks like that, y’know?”
Your cheeks heat at his choice words, and you shrug, feigning innocence as you bring his hand to yours, admiring the large size a syou play with his fingers, feeling more touchy than usual, and you’re ever so glad that he lets you.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, flashing him a look that sends a nonexistent punch to his gut, the blood rushing south because you look ethereal like this, “Don’t you want me to…return to favor? Tit for tat?”
He chuckles, his thumb moving across your eyebrow, soothing the furrow as it moves down to rub against your cheek.
“We can do tat later,” he uses your terminology and you giggle, your lips pulling into a bright smile because you’re sitting in a post-orgasm afterglow with your crush, and that stupid theorem you had stressed over doesn’t even matter anymore because the impossible outcome is happening right now and you don’t bother with looking normal because you’re feeling anything but, “I still have a date I need to take you out on.”
You try not to gush like an idiot, your head falling into his sturdy chest, and his hand moves up and down your back, tracing stars and circles and hearts and writing his name, as if he wanted everyone to see the invisible ink that’s bleeding from his fingertips into you.
His finger hooks around your jaw, tilting your head upwards so he can see you better.
“You wanna date me?” You ask breathlessly with dizzingly joy, the question holding no weight because the two of you already know the answer, but he indulges you, his head falling to yours, forehead against yours, glasses sitting perfectly on his perfect face that’s pressing against your perfect one.
“I want to be yours,” he murmurs, vulnerability thick in his voice as your lashes flutter, “So, yeah, I want to date you.”
You giggle again, and you lift your head a little to slot your lips against his plush ones.
“I want to be yours too, Satoru,” you say, and he groans, his eyes rolling back like those were the only words he’s been dying to hear, and he lets out a victorious laugh, something happy and sickeningly sweet because the girl he’s been in love with for the past two years just so happens to love him back.
remarkable, outstanding, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before
SYNOPSIS: you’re assigned to babysit a rare dog hybrid, toji, until the government finds him a mate to repopulate his kind. the problem? he couldn’t care less about his species—he only wants to breed you.
➢ AUTHOR'S NOTE: i swear to god if this gets flagged again we're gonna have real problems..
they call you into a room that smells faintly of bleach and bureaucracy. high ceilings, humming fluorescent lights, a long table that gleams like it’s been polished twice too often. men and women in pressed uniforms sit across from you, their hands folded neatly, their faces all cut from the same stern mold. you almost laugh when you realize—you look like you’re here for a job interview, clutching your notepad like it’s going to save you.
it isn’t a job. it’s an assignment.
“thank you for coming,” one of them says, her voice smooth but clipped, like she’s already halfway through the next ten meetings on her schedule. “we’ll be brief. you’ve been selected for a caretaker position—temporary, of course.”
your brow furrows. caretaker? you think of hospitals, convalescent homes, not the government’s sterile walls.
then they drop his name. toji.
“a rare specimen,” another officer explains, sliding a thin file across the table like a dealer in some high-stakes game. the cover bears only a stamped seal, heavy and official. “last of his kind, we believe. canine hybrid—genetic markers unique, irreplaceable.”
you flip the file open. a photograph stares back at you, black and white, grainy like it’s been copied too many times. a man—or something close enough to pass at a glance. tall, broad, a slouch to his stance that suggests irritation rather than weakness. dark hair falls across his face, his expression caught mid-scowl. even in monochrome, he radiates a kind of contempt for the camera, for whoever thought they could capture him.
“your role is straightforward,” the woman continues, folding her hands neatly atop the table. “you’ll house him until we find a suitable mate. his… reproductive potential is too valuable to risk. he must be kept safe, observed, kept in good health.”
your throat feels dry. you glance down again at the picture. the file lists other details—height, weight, dietary needs—but your eyes keep catching on the warning line stamped bold at the bottom: reluctant to comply. highly territorial. requires discipline.
“why me?” you hear yourself ask. your voice sounds smaller than you meant it to.
the officer doesn’t hesitate. “your background makes you uniquely qualified. young enough to adapt, educated enough to document, unencumbered by family obligations. we believe he may… respond better to someone like you.”
someone like you.
the words sit heavy, and for a fleeting, absurd moment, you picture yourself leading a dog on a leash. except this one is six-plus feet of muscle and teeth, and nothing about him looks leash-trained.
you close the file, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears. “and if he doesn’t… respond?”
the officer’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “then you’ll learn to make him.”
they don’t give you much warning. three days, a checklist of things to “prepare” (nutrient-dense food, reinforced locks, a private bedroom), and then they show up on your doorstep like you’re adopting a rescue animal instead of harboring the government’s prized demihuman.
two black vans idle at the curb, engines thrumming low, tinted windows reflecting the weak sunlight. neighbors peek from their windows, curtain slats shifting like nervous eyes. you can almost hear their speculation—drug bust, maybe. raid. certainly nothing that could possibly involve you.
until they unload him.
he steps out of the back like he owns the pavement. shackles bite into his wrists, chains clinking with each deliberate move. it should look degrading, humiliating, but somehow it doesn’t—because that man doesn’t carry humiliation. he carries menace. broad shoulders, head tilted slightly down like he’s watching the world from under his lashes.
the officers on either side grip his arms too tightly, but you can see it in the tension in their bodies, the stiffness in their spines—they’re afraid of him. and he knows it.
“subject is in your custody,” one announces, though his voice cracks near the end.
subject.
but he doesn’t look like a subject when his eyes catch yours. green, needle-pointed, more animal than human in their focus, and suddenly your little house feels far too small to contain something like him.
“you?” his voice is low, gruff, almost mocking, as though the word itself is a joke he’s relishing. his gaze sweeps over you once, deliberate, from your nervous hands clutching the paperwork to the uncertain set of your shoulders. “they’re dumping me with you?”
you swallow, force your chin up even though your stomach twists with dread. “i’m your caretaker.”
he lets out a harsh bark of laughter, far from any humor. “caretaker,” he repeats, like he’s testing the taste of it. his shit-eating grin stretches wider, showing his sharp canines. “what are you gonna do, feed me kibbles? take me on walks?”
the officers don’t laugh. no one does.
you’re aware, acutely, that your neighbors are still watching from behind their curtains. that the government expects you to handle him. that you can’t show hesitation, even as your palms gets slick with sweat.
“i’ll do what i have to,” you say at last, voice steadier than how you you feel.
toji tilts his head, and for the briefest moment you think he might lunge—might snap the chain taut just to see you flinch from him. but instead, he huffs, amused, and lets the officers push him toward your door.
they unclip his cuffs at your doorway like it’s a bomb disposal, quick and careful, one officer bracing his weight just in case he decides to bolt. he doesn’t. he just shakes out his wrists, the chain hitting your hardwood floor with a dull clang, then stretches like an overgrown mutt finally off-leash. you can hear the quiet rip of his joints rolling back into comfort, the subtle crack of his knuckles flexing.
inside, the air feels too quiet, too thin, and his presence fills it instantly. he doesn’t move like a man dropped into someone else’s home; he moves like he’s already staking claim. his broad shoulders brush against the narrow hallway walls, his boots thudding heavy against the floor. the faint sway of his chains punctuates each step, though he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn’t care.
you try to remind yourself that this is temporary. that you’re just a stopgap, a holding pen until the higher-ups find him a mate. that he’s not yours.
but when his eyes flick lazily over your space, landing again on you, that fucking smirk curling deeper, the thought creeps in anyway.
it already feels like you’re the one being caged.
“home sweet home,” he drawls, like the words taste sour.
you don’t answer. maybe you’re afraid that if you open your mouth he’ll smell the nerves on your breath.
your house isn’t much. a boxy living room with a couch too soft for someone his size, a kitchen visible from the doorway, the faint smell of coffee still clinging to the air. neat, modest, painfully human. but with him inside, it feels different. smaller. tighter. like the walls have contracted around him, forced to contain someone they were never built for.
he drops onto your couch without asking, the whole thing dipping under his weight until it groans like it might split. he sprawls wide, legs apart, one arm thrown across the back like he owns the place. his boots are still on, scuffing the fabric, leaving dark streaks against the beige.
you want to tell him to take them off. but you don’t.
instead, you stand awkwardly at the edge of the room, clutching the stack of papers the officers left you—feeding schedule, behavioral guidelines, medical notes printed sterile and clinical. none of it prepares you for the sight of him stretching out like a smug bastard in your living room, a scar curling down his jaw, teeth flashing when he smirks up at you.
“so this is where i live now,” he says, almost to himself, but his eyes never leave your face.
you manage a shaky nod. “until they find you a mate.”
there’s a flicker of something keen in his gaze but then it’s gone, smothered under the slow curve of his grin.
“a mate, huh.” he leans back further, head tipping against the couch cushion. his shirt rides up with the movement, exposing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pants. cut muscle, a trail of dark hair. the kind of view you’d get scrolling porn, not standing in your own home. “guess that makes you my babysitter.”
the word babysitter hangs in the air, sticky and humiliating.
he chuckles low, scratching the side of his jaw with one thick finger like a street dog “gonna feed me, bathe me, tuck me in?”
you look away, throat tight with tensity “i’ll do what needs to be done.”
that earns you another laugh, louder this time. he slaps a hand against his thigh like you just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard.
“you’re serious, huh?” his teeth flash again, a canine glint that matches the too-green gleam of his eyes. “fuck, this is gonna be fun.”
you try to ignore the way he says it. try to ignore the prickle crawling down your spine, the silent dare in his voice.
he will eventually leave, right? you can be a little patient—of course you can.
no.
ten minutes in, and he’s already testing you.
he kicks the coffee table with the heel of his boot, sending the stack of coasters you’d set there clattering to the floor, just to see if you’ll bend to pick them up. when you don’t, when you stand your ground, he hums low, amused.
he opens your fridge without asking, drinks from the milk carton straight from the spout, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. you want to tell him not to. you don’t.
instead, you watch the muscles in his throat shift with each swallow, the flex of his jaw as he drinks, the thick line of his scar catching the kitchen light.
when he’s finished, he sets the carton back half-empty, meeting your eyes purposely as he slams the fridge door shut.
“thanks, caretaker.”
instead of snapping at him, you try to read through the stack of government paperwork like it’s going to protect you. care instructions, feeding portions, health checks. sterile black ink printed on cheap white paper—rules that mean nothing when you glance up and see him sprawled out on your couch, his dark, fluffy tail flicking up lightly.
toji watches you pretend to focus, head tilted against the cushion, lips curled in something between boredom and amusement. a dog with a bone he hasn’t decided if he wants to chew or bury.
“what, no lecture?” he says finally, scratching his jaw with blunt nails. “thought you’d be all over me by now. ‘wipe your feet, don’t touch this, don’t touch that.’” his voice goes sing-song on the last bit, a mockery of how he imagines you sound.
you don’t rise to the bait. maybe you’re scared of what happens if you do. maybe you’re already too aware of the weight of his eyes dragging over you like claws.
but he notices. he notices everything.
when you finally stand, collecting the empty milk carton and muttering about garbage, he follows. no sound, no warning—just a shift in the air behind you, heat radiating from his body before you even turn. his chest brushes your shoulder, deliberate, testing.
“small kitchen,” he says, his voice low, like he’s measuring how you’ll react to his closeness.
“you’re too big,” you shoot back before you can stop yourself.
his grin is jagged as be he hums, “that’s what they tell me.”
you shove the carton into the trash harder than necessary, hoping the sound covers the way your pulse spikes.
by the time you turn back, he’s already leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, watching you like he’s settling in for a show.
toji doesn’t act like a man adjusting to a caretaker. he acts like a mutt testing boundaries, pawing at invisible fences just to see if they’ll hold. and when they don’t? he pushes harder.
he flicks the fridge magnets off with a lazy swipe of his hand, watches them clatter to the floor. smirks when you don’t move to pick them up.
he grabs the remote on his way back to the couch, flips through channels with impatient clicks, pausing only when something loud flashes across the screen. his boots are still on, still grinding into your fabric, like he knows it’ll make your skin crawl.
“you’re quiet,” he says, not looking away from the TV this time. “don’t like talkin’?”
you don’t answer, not right away.
he turns his head finally, green eyes bright in the glow of the television. “or don’t like talkin’ to me?”
you tell yourself you’re not going to rise to it. not the magnets on the floor, not the boots on the couch, not the way he keeps humming under his breath like he owns the place already. it’s been hours, not even a full day, and somehow the house feels like the walls are bending around his size, shrinking until every room is just him and the heat that rolls off his breathe.
he doesn’t look at you when he asks, “got a boyfriend?”
the question is thrown out casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, but his gaze flicks sideways just fast enough to let you know it’s not a throwaway line.
“no.”
he hums, low in his throat, and shifts against the couch, thighs spreading wider. “figured. don’t smell one.”
you blink, sure you misheard. “...excuse me?”
toji’s smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth pulling up as his tongue flicks across his teeth. “dog nose,” he says, tapping the side of it. “you don’t smell like anyone else. no other man’s sweat on you. no sex.” he shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “just you.”
heat climbs the back of your neck, humiliation and something close enough to lust twining together. he says it so bluntly, like reading a chart, like you’re just another piece of data.
you try to retreat—to the kitchen, to the bathroom, anywhere—but he’s faster. you don’t even hear him rise, just the weight of him at your back again, looming close enough you feel the brush of his chest against your shoulder.
“thought so,” he murmurs, low and smug. “you smell… clean.” his nose brushes your hair, just barely, and your stomach flips like you’ve been yanked too close to the edge of something.
you force yourself to move, to break the moment, but he doesn’t let you get far.
later, when you grab a blanket from the closet and toss it toward him with clipped words—“use this, couch is yours”—he catches it one-handed and doesn’t unfold it. just tosses it aside.
“nah,” he says, voice lilting with the same grin you’re starting to hate. “i don’t do couches.”
the implication hangs heavy, even when he doesn’t clarify. he doesn’t need to.
you lock your bedroom door that night.
but you still hear him. the pad of heavy footsteps as he prowls your house. the click of the TV shutting off. the soft scratch of claws—no, nails—on the wall outside your room as he lingers, listening.
like a dog testing the limits of his leash.
like he’s waiting for you to let him in.
you lie awake for too long. sheets pulled tight under your chin, every muscle stiff, listening. it’s pathetic how alert you are, ears straining for every sound, every breath.
and he makes sure you hear him.
the first time it’s the fridge door opening, the hollow suction pop of rubber seals giving way. then the clink of bottles, the scrape of glass against glass, and the breathy sound he makes after—thirst quenched, satisfied.
the second time it’s the couch springs groaning under his weight, then a beat later, the distinct thud of boots hitting the floor. he wants you to know he’s there, sprawling, stretching, taking up space.
then—closer.
a drag of nails along the drywall. deliberate, slow, right outside your door. you see the faintest shadow slip past the gap under the frame, broad and moving lazy, like he’s pacing.
your breath sticks in your throat.
“you asleep in there?” his voice is low, playful, muffled by the door but still somehow inside the room.
you don’t answer. can't? don't want to?
silence stretches—then the soft, deliberate creak of wood as he leans in, shoulder against the frame. you imagine him tilting his head, listening to your breath, his grin widening when he catches the quickened rhythm.
“figured not,” he drawls. “i can hear your little heartbeat.”
you squeeze your eyes shut. you don’t move, don’t even twitch, but the way your thighs press together under the sheets betrays you to yourself.
he doesn’t knock. doesn’t try the knob. just drags those nails one last time down the door before he shifts away, heavy steps receding down the hall.
the next day, the morning feels too bright, too ordinary, like nothing happened at all. sunlight slices through the blinds, dust floating in the beam, kitchen humming with the low buzz of the fridge. for a second you let yourself believe it—that he’s still asleep, that you imagined the scrape of nails, the weight of unseen breath hovering over you in the dark.
then you walk into the living room, your gaze landing on him. he’s on the couch, sprawled, shirtless.
just that. shirtless. like it’s nothing. like he doesn’t know what he looks like, all scarred muscle stretched out in the daylight, broad chest rising slow as he takes a lazy drag from the glass of water he swiped from your kitchen. his sweatpants ride too low on his hips, a waistband straining against something half-hard already.
“mornin’,” he says, voice rough with sleep. his eyes flick up at you, amused, like he can see the way your gaze stalls against the sharp cut of his collarbone.
you swallow, pretend to busy yourself with the kettle. you can feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement, the way your hand trembles just slightly on the handle.
when you crouch to grab a mug from the bottom shelf, he moves. stands. suddenly he’s behind you, close—too close.
“need help with that?” his voice is right at your ear, low and casual, but the way his breath hits your neck makes you freeze.
you shake your head, force yourself to straighten up, mug clutched like a shield. but he doesn’t step back. no—he lingers, towering over you, his shadow swallowing you up. you don’t have to look down to know what’s pressing at the front of his sweats now, thick and obvious.
he stretches, arms above his head, the movement obscene—showing off every ripple of muscle, the scars cutting across his torso. his cock shifts with it, straining the fabric, and his smirk says he knows you noticed.
he pads past you then, deliberately brushing against your shoulder, a smug little rumble low in his throat.
“cozy place you got here,” he says, sinking back onto the couch, legs spread wide. his hand rests casually on his thigh, too close to the tent in his pants.
you take a sip of your tea just to keep your hands steady.
he laughs under his breath, eyes gleaming. “what? you nervous already?”
you clench you teeth, just to avoid losing control "shut up..."
the smug bastard doesn’t stop testing you after breakfast—if anything, he doubles down.
you’re wiping the counter when you feel it again: that giant behind your back, the shadow that’s just too close. you spin, dish towel clenched in your fist.
“seriously? do you have to hover?”
he grins, unbothered, leaning his hip against the counter like he owns it. “what? ‘m just standin’ here.” his voice has that lazy drawl, tail twitching slow behind him. “can’t help it if you keep bendin’ over in front of me.”
“you’re impossible,” you mutter, pushing past him. his shoulder brushes yours on purpose—hard enough to remind you how solid he is.
later, when you try to put some distance between you, he stretches out like a human sized dog on the couch, legs wide, veiny hand lazily resting way too close to the bulge in his sweatpants. his eyes flick to you every time you pass through the room, arrogant as sin.
“you keep starin’ down there,” he teases.
you snap your head toward him, glaring sharp enough to cut glasss. “i’m not staring. i’m making sure you’re not wrecking my furniture.”
a slow, chilling smile splits his face. “sure. whatever helps you sleep at night.”
you throw the remote at him. he catches it one-handed, laughing.
by the time the afternoon rolls in, you’ve had enough. you dig out the little vial the higher-ups pressed into your hand yesterday, the one rattling with pale blue capsules. you hold it out to him.
“what’s that?” he asks, though his nose twitches like he already knows.
“heat suppressants,” you say firmly. “you take one a day. non-negotiable.”
his smirk collapses into a wolfish grin. he leans forward, plucks the vial from your palm with thick fingers, his knuckles brushing deliberately over your skin. “so bossy.” he shakes the vial, rattling it like candy. “these are supposed to keep me from mountin’ you, huh?”
you exhale sharply, jaw tight. “from mounting anyone. you don’t get a choice. take one.”
he tilts his head, eyes dragging slow down your body before flicking back up. “yeah, yeah. i’ll take ‘em.”
you don’t miss the way he doesn’t pop one out, doesn’t swallow it down in front of you. he just pockets the vial, lazy and careless, like he’s humoring you.
“toji,” you warn.
“relax, sweetheart.” he taps the pocket with two fingers. “got it right here. see? i’ll be good.”
but the smirk doesn’t fade, and you know—you know—he’s lying through his teeth.
he doesn’t give you peace for the rest of the day. if anything, toji seems energized by the fact you handed him those suppressants, like he’s won some invisible game. you catch him watching you from the couch, from the kitchen doorway, even from the goddamn hallway mirror, and it’s enough to grind your teeth raw.
days turn into weeks like that—him circling closer, you pushing back, a rhythm neither of you asked for but somehow fell into anyway.
the phone is hot against your ear, your voice sharper than you mean it to be.
“months. months, and you’re telling me you still haven’t found a match?” you pace the kitchen, one hand pressed hard to your forehead. “what do you even do over there? shuffle paperwork until it disappears? he’s not some file you can misplace—he’s a living, breathing person!”
the higher-up on the other end drones through the same excuses: rarity of his kind, complex genetics, compatibility screening takes time. excuses you’ve heard a hundred times before.
you cut them off, jaw clenched, hissing the words out. “so until then, what? i’m supposed to just keep him here? like a stray you dumped on my porch?”
silence. then, a clipped, “your cooperation is crucial.”
you hang up before you say something that gets you blacklisted—or worse.
when you turn, he’s there. of course he fucking is. leaning in the doorway, arms folded, ears twitching like he caught every word. he doesn’t even pretend to give you privacy anymore.
“they piss you off again?” his voice is rough from sleep, but there’s a pride under it, like he’s proud you’re mad on his behalf.
“don’t start,” you mutter, brushing past him, but he doesn’t let you. his enormous hand closes around your wrist, not hard, but insistent. “hey. i’m not complainin’. i like it here.” his tail flicks once, sharp, before curling lazy. “like bein’ with you.”
that’s the thing—you believe him. at first, he treated you like an inconvenience, another leash clipped to his collar. but somewhere between broken mugs, pawing at your laundry, and sprawling across your couch like he paid rent, he got comfortable. way too comfortable.
now, he follows you everywhere. bathroom, kitchen, even the tiny laundry room—looming behind you. when delivery guys drop packages, he hovers in the hall, eyeing them like they’re intruding. one time a neighbor waved at you on the sidewalk, and toji’s hand tightened on your shoulder so possessively you thought the guy might bolt.
he watches you like you’re his.
and the worst part? sometimes it feels like you’ve let him be.
you pinch the bridge of your nose, pulse still racing from the phone call. “you don’t get it, toji. taking care of a huge demihuman isn’t exactly easy. you break shit without even noticing. you eat like three people combined. you—”
“tch.” he cuts you off with a low rumble, stepping closer until your back nearly brushes the counter. “so? i never asked to go anywhere else.”
“that’s not the point.” you sigh, pushing at his chest, though he doesn’t budge. “i’m not your babysitter, not your—”
“ya kinda are,” he interrupts, head tilting just enough to show the unhurried ease of his smile. “my caretaker, right? means i get to stick with you.”
before you can argue, he bends, arms scooping around your waist like it’s nothing, dragging you into him. his face tucks into the crook of your neck, hot breath against your skin, tail swishing slow.
“toji,” you warn, voice tight, but his hold only tightens.
“don’t wanna go,” he mutters, muffled against your collar. “don’t care what they say. i like it here. like you.”
it’s ridiculous—he’s massive, warm, muscles coiled under your palms like a predator, but he’s clinging like some overgrown cat who decided the couch is his throne and you’re part of the cushion.
“you make it sound so simple,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
he offers a deep, rumbling sound in his chest, a soft agreement, and nuzzles his face deeper against you. “’cause it is.”
you give a frustrated squirm, but his grip only tightens, refusing to give ground. “toji, I mean it. let go.”
he only tilts his head, mouth dragging lazy against your neck like he’s trying to scent you. “mm, nah. feels too good.” his voice is smug, but there’s something heavier under it—like if he lets go, he really will lose you.
“you’re impossible.” you shove harder at his chest, but he doesn’t move an inch. “I can’t get anything done if you’re attached to me like this.”
“then don’t do anything.” he leans back just enough to see you, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his lips. “stay here. with me. not like you got anywhere better to be.”
your stomach does a little flip—part anger, part frustration, and maybe a bit of something you’d rather not think about. “you can’t just—cling to me every second of the day. I need space.”
he lets out a low, knowing chuckle at that, the sound rough and deep in his chest. “space? you’ve got plenty. look how small you are next to me.” his hand settles across your back with heavy familiarity like he’s proving the point, effortlessly dwarfing you. “bet I could carry you ‘round all day if I wanted.”
“toji—”
“what?” he cuts in, the corner of his mouth drawing up as his grin widens. “you’ll yell at me again? make me take those stupid pills?”
the way he says it—mocking, but also daring—makes your chest go cold. you’d handed him the little blue capsules just this morning, watched him toss them back with a swig of water.
or at least, you thought he did.
"toji, i'm serious! get away from me already!”
the look on his face when you snap finally lands like a slap. his posture freezes mid-sentence, shoulders stiffen, and for the first time since he came under your roof, he actually drops his hand without a word of protest.
he doesn’t talk back. doesn’t smirk this time. his eyes, which had been locked onto yours a second before, cut away as if burned, and he steps back like you shoved a knife into him, his arms dropping awkward and heavy at his sides. “fine,” he mutters, voice low, flat in a way that truly unsettles you. “you want space? you got it.”
and then he’s gone—pads down the hall with that big frame hunched, like a dog that’s been kicked, and disappears into his room.
the silence after is almost worse than his clinginess. no heavy footsteps dragging or shadowing yours, no lazy drawl every time you so much as slide open the fridge. you catch yourself listening for him while you work, only to be met with the dull, persistent hum of the refrigerator.
the house feels bigger without him taking up the space—emptier, and somehow colder, too.
you almost go to knock on his door around dinner, but pride keeps you locked in place. if he wants to sulk, fine. you’ll give him all the space in the world.
except when night falls, and the house settles, you hear it—the floorboards creak soft outside your door. the hesitant pause. the faint, held breath.
you don’t move. don’t say anything. your own breath feels shallow and loud. and after a long moment, the knob turns just slightly, a whisper of brass against wood, as if he’s testing whether you locked it.
you’re half-asleep when the bed dips. a familiar weight. not unusual—not anymore. he’s been sneaking in for weeks now, the ritual perfected, always with some shitty excuse: couldn’t sleep. too cold. “house smells funny without you.” you stopped arguing the fourth time it happened; easier to just let him curl against your back like a massive, possessive cat and steal your pillow.
but tonight the weight and the quiet feels different.
it’s the way he moves—hesitant at first, then urgent, almost desperate. his breath is hot against the crook of your neck, ragged, a hitching sound close to a sob, like he’s been holding it in all day. you stir, blink through the dark.
“toji?” your voice is rough with sleep. “what are you—”
the question vaporizes when you feel it. the thick, desperate stab of his hard-on grinding against your ass, contained only by thin cotton shorts that do nothing to hide the sopping wet heat seeping through. he fucks into you with a muffled groan, his hips stuttering like he’s beyond control.
your drowsy brain finally cuts through the fog, connecting the dots. the heat suppressants. the pills you’ve been handing him, watching him tip back with water like some rebellious little shit.
“wait—” you twist to look at him, see his pupils blown wide, eyes glazed over with fever. “toji. did you even take those pills?”
his forehead slams into your shoulder. he shakes his head once, hard, like a child confessing too late. a shiver violently tears through him as his hips snap forward again, mashing his cock against the curve of your ass.
and it hits you then: he’s been holding it back. weeks of fake swallows and spit pills, of smug grins that never reached his eyes. and now, the dam’s cracking. his body’s on fire, rutting against you like instinct’s dragged him past reason.
you can feel the full, throbbing outline of him through your shorts—thick, heavy, pissing enough to dampen the fabric. each frenzied roll of his hips leaves you gasping, caught between shock and filthy heat pooling low in your stomach.
“toji—” you hiss, half a warning, half a plea. he only groans, teeth grazing your shoulder as he keeps grinding, his hard-on dragging against you like he’s trying to blast you through layers of clothes. “please,” he pants, desperate. “lemme—just a little. can’t stop.”
he’s rutting like he’s lost his goddamn mind—hips dragging against you in rough, needy jerks that make the mattress creak. every roll of his cock smears more slick, wet heat over your ass, fabric clinging damp to your skin. his mouth is on you everywhere—panting into your hair, teeth catching at your shoulder, whining like a desperate dog in a way that’s raw, unfiltered, not the smug bastard you’ve been dealing with for months but something older, more primal.
“toji—stop—” you catch his wrist, try to shove him back, but he’s too heavy, too desperate. “you can’t—fuck, you can’t do this. you’re my assignment. i'm your caretaker. it’s not—” you bite down on the word—“it’s not allowed.”
he groans against your throat, thrusting harder, cock grinding against you like he’s trying to prove a point. “don’t care. don’t fuckin’ care.” his voice cracks halfway through, breaks into a moan as his hips stutter. “those old geezers are too fuckin' late to find me a mate.”
your pulse kicks hard in your throat. you can feel how bad it is now, the girthy shape of him through both your clothes—thick, leaking, the blunt, swollen head catching against the curve of your ass with every frantic thrust.
“they’ll find you someone suitable,” you push out, the words thin, shaking. “they’re working on it—”
“don’t want anyone.” his teeth scrape the shell of your ear, words a hot, ragged growl. “want you. only you. been holdin’ it back—fuck—too long. can’t—” his hips slam forward, his cock dragging over your soaked shorts like he’s trying to fuck the fabric itself. “can’t stop now. don’t even want to.”
your fingers fist in the sheets, torn between shoving him off and arching your hips into the heat of his body. every brutal thrust makes your breath hitch, every low, broken sound he lets out cracks something filthy in your chest.
“toji—”
“please,” he cuts in, desperate, breath shuddering as he pounds harder against you. “lemme fuck you. lemme breed you. don’t need anyone else. don’t even fuckin’ want anyone else.”
“stop fighting me,” he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat dampening his hair. “you feel it too, don’t you?—fuck—you’re wet already. soaked through, and i didn’t even get it in yet.”
“i’m not—” the protest dies halfway out of your throat when he grinds just right, the thick outline of him dragging where you’re most sensitive. heat fucks you up, lancing sharp and humiliating through your belly, and your body betrays you with a hitching gasp.
he smirks, mean and shaky, mouth brushing your jaw. “knew it. knew your cunt wanted me.” his voice drops low, hot against your ear. “you think i can’t smell it? been wantin’ me since the start.”
you shake your head, but it’s weak, pathetic compared to the way your hips tilt right into him without meaning to. “you’re—my assignment—”
“fuck your assignment,” he snaps, then moans, grinding harder, rutting in delirious little jerks that leave both of you breathless. “fuck the higher-ups. they don’t matter. only you. only this.”
his hand slams between your thighs before you can stop him, palm pressing hard against your cunt through thin cotton. he groans like it’s killing him, like just feeling the fire of you is enough to break him open.
“feel that?” his breath is hot against your temple, words slipping between teeth gritted against restraint. “all for me. not for some mate they’ll find months from now. for me.”
you try to say his name like a warning, but it comes out more like a whine, trembling and weak. your grip on his wrist falters.
he catches it instantly—always so damn sharp when it comes to you. his mouth drags to your throat, tongue wet against the pulse hammering there, and his hips slow, grinding deep instead of fast. deliberate. coaxing.
“just say it,” he murmurs, low and rough. “say you’ll let me. i’ll make you feel so good, sweetheart. stretch you open nice and full—fuck, i’ll keep you stuffed till you can’t think of anything else. just me. only me.”
your chest heaves, caught between the sharp edge of fear and the dizzy pull of heat. his cock throbs against you, heavy and insistent, his breath ragged in your ear. your lips part, words tumbling out in a whisper that trembles at the edges but still lands, clear enough for him to hear: “...okay. just—fuck, just do it.” it isn’t steady, isn’t confident, but it’s not a no.
toji doesn’t move at first. he freezes like he thinks you’re tricking him, like the second he touches you, you’ll shove him away and tell him it was all a mistake. his ears twitch, breath stuttering against your thigh, and then he lets out a sound that’s half-moan, half-growl.
the blanket is ripped off in an instant. your shorts, panties—gone, peeled off with clumsy urgency until you’re bare to the air. and then his mouth is on you. no foreplay, no teasing, just hot tongue dragging over you in a messy, frantic lap that makes your whole body jerk.
it isn’t gentle. it isn’t careful. he moans against you like he’s been denied this for years, lapping broad and sloppy from your clit to your hole, sucking at whatever he can get his mouth on. drool’s already slicking his chin, stringing between his lips and your cunt, shining in the dim light.
you grab his hair, try to tug him back enough to breathe, but he growls low in his throat, a warning, and shoves his face in deeper. his nose grinds against your clit while his tongue pushes inside, thick and wet, working at you in unpracticed thrusts that leaves you gasping.
then he pulls back, just enough to spit—a thick, wet glob landing right on your folds. you jolt, shocked, but he doesn’t give you time to complain. he dives back in, licking it up greedily, spreading it with his tongue in messy circles that make your hips buck helplessly.
“fuck—” the sound rips out of you, half a raw gasp, half a desperate beg.
he smirks against your cunt, fangs grazing your skin as he sucks your clit into his mouth, careful not to bite but still sharp enough to leave you shivering. and then his fingers—fuck, his fingers—finally join in.
thick, rough digits press against your entrance, a little too hard, testing, then clumsily nudging, before one shoves in. It’s too blunt, too sudden, but the stretch is so deep it makes your insides jump. he lets out a choked groan at the feel, like your body closing around him is the filthiest, most unearned thing he’s ever gotten, and his tongue doesn't slow down, orbiting your clit while he fucks you with that single, heavy finger
“more,” he pants against you, pulling back just enough for his words to hit your slick skin. “gotta give me more—” another finger shoves in beside the first, and your back arches, a strangled sound breaking out of you.
he watches it, watches the way you fall apart on his hand and mouth, and his cock twitches against the mattress where he’s rutting mindlessly, precum soaking into the sheets.
“ngh—” a small sound tears free, your voice cracking before you can even catch it. his fingers curl in too fast, too deep, catching on your wet walls without any rhythm yet, but it doesn't matter, not really—not when his mouth is clamped down on your clit, his tongue flattening and dragging in sloppy, frantic circles, and it’s too much, too sudden. “toji—wait, wait—mmhp, s-slow down—”
he groans into you, loud and desperate, like you’re the one feeding him instead of the other way around. the vibration rattles straight through your nerves, making your thighs twitch against his ears.
he pulls back just enough to whine, lips wet and glistening, chin glossy with spit and slick. “can’t—fuckin’ can’t slow down. you taste—hnnh—taste too good.”
your head falls back against the soft pillow, a helpless gasp tearing out of your throat when he shoves yet another finger into your cunt. three of them, thick, clumsy, stretching you open with every thrust. his knuckles grind against your entrance, and the thick, wet slap of it fills the air each time he bottoms out.
“oh my god, toji—ahh, f-fuck, you’re—” your breath stutters, thighs trembling as he spits again, thick and wet, letting it drip down his fingers where they’re buried inside you. the sensation is filthy, obscene, makes you clamp around him hard. he groans, high and broken, fucking his fingers into you faster like he’s chasing your reactions. “tight—so fuckin’ tight. won’t let me go, huh?” his voice is a ragged pant against your folds, half-drowned by the way he sucks your clit back into his mouth and moans around it.
“mmhp—n-no, stop saying shit like that—” your hands fist his hair, half trying to shove him away, half yanking him closer. his fangs only just graze your thigh this time, just enough to sting, and the pinprick sharpness makes your whole body buck.
he pulls back with a gasp, licking the faint red mark his teeth left like he wants to erase it, then immediately noses back into your heat. “lemme, just lemme—fuck—lemme stay here.” his words break up into whines like he can’t breathe without your taste.
“toji, please—nghh, slow down—i-i can’t—” but he’s gone, ears pinned flat, hips jerking into the mattress in time with his fingers working your cunt. every sloppy lap of his tongue is matched with the grind of his cock into the sheets, and the wet sounds from both of you blur together until you can’t tell which is your own, which is his, or which is more humiliating.
he drags his mouth up to your clit again, sucking hard, and when you cry out, your hips lifting off the bed, he moans right into you, shameless. “gimme—fuck—wanna feel you cum.”
your eyes squeeze shut, thighs trembling as you gasp out, “i-i can’t—ahh, nghhh, t-too much—”
his ears twitch against your thighs, velvet-soft but trembling like he’s as close to breaking as you are. every whimper that slips out of him rattles right into your skin, half-muffled by the way his mouth stays glued to you.
when he pulls back for just a second to breathe, you see his fangs glint wet in the low light—sharp and gleaming. and then he’s sinking them against your inner thigh, not hard enough to pierce, just grazing, teasing. the sting of it makes your hips buck, a sharp whimper leaving your lips. “ngh—toji—stop, i c-can’t—”
he growls low in his chest, more animal than man. “don’t stop me,” he pants, pressing sloppy kisses to the spot his teeth just marked. “been starving—fuck—starving for you.”
your cunt clenches hard around his fingers, his knuckles slick with your arousal. he notices instantly, groaning into your skin, his hips grinding helplessly against the mattress. his cock must be slicking the sheets, but he doesn’t care—too drunk on you, too consumed.
“mmhp—ahh—” you choke on your own moan when his tongue pushes lower, flattening and licking between his fingers where they split you open. it’s obscene, the way he spits right after, drool and slick dripping down his hand before he slurps it back up, swallowing loud.
his ears twitch again, catching every sound you make. when your breath stutters, he pulls back just enough to smirk, lips shiny and swollen. “you’re close,” he says, voice husky, proud even as he’s panting. “can smell it, right here—” his nose nudges into your mound, inhaling deeply like it’s instinct, like he’s memorizing your scent.
“d-don’t say shit like that,” you whine, shoving at his head, but your legs betray you, locking tighter around his shoulders. his tail betrays him even more than his ears—it thrashes behind him like it’s got a mind of its own, smacking the mattress, curling tight in the sheets each time he groans into you. the moment you whimper his name, it coils up around your ankle like a shackle, tugging your leg wider so his mouth can sink in deeper.
“so sweet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, tongue diving back in, quick and greedy. every lap feels sharper with his fangs grazing just close enough to scare you, keep you on edge.
your body shakes, your nails dig into his scalp, and your voice breaks around the words: “t-toji—ahhh, nghh—i’m gonna—” your warning falls apart into pure noise, a half-scream, half-sob that punches out of your chest when it finally hits. your whole body locks tight—then it shakes, trembling hard enough to rattle the bedframe as release tears through you.
“ahhh—f-fuck—nghh, toji—”
it’s messy, too messy, slick gushing over his tongue in thick waves, dripping down his chin, soaking his hand where he’s still working you through it. you feel it, feel yourself spilling over, humiliated and bliss-struck all at once.
he doesn’t back off. not even for a second. toji groans like a man dying and being reborn at the same time, nose shoved into your mound as he swallows you down—loud, greedy gulps that make your ears burn. his tail thrashes behind him like he’s lost control, ears twitching madly with every sound you make.
“mmhp—god, you taste—” he chokes, then latches back onto your clit, tongue flattening and dragging, sucking every last drop like he’s been parched for centuries. your thighs twitch around his head, trying to close, but his hands are iron on your hips, forcing you open, making you ride it out while he drinks. you sob again, overstimulated, the sharp scrape of his fangs just enough to make your nerves scream even higher.
“t-toji—hahhh, please—s-slow down—” you beg, but your hips are rolling against his mouth anyway, desperate and helpless.
his mouth finally leaves you, slick and spit cooling on your thighs, his chin dripping with the mess he made out of you. he breathes like he just fought a war, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide and dark, sweat darkening the hair that’s fallen over his face. his tongue flicks out one last time, catching a string of wet that glues itself from his lip to your cunt, and then he groans low in his chest, shifting higher.
“fuck,” toji pants, voice hoarse, like he’s been crying instead of moaning into your pussy for the past hour. “you came so much, sweetheart. so much for me.” his hand is on your belly now, pressing you down, keeping you flat. “still twitchin’—look at that. you’re beggin’ for cock already.”
“n-no,” you whimper, voice breaking on the word, head rolling against the pillow. “we can’t—nghh, toji—we’re not supposed to.”
he grins, crooked and sharp, canines catching in the weak lamp light. “supposed to?” he echoes, leaning down until his nose brushes yours. his ears flick once, tail dragging heavy across the sheets like it can’t sit still. “you think i give a fuck what those assholes in suits want? they can shove their rules up their asses. i’m hard for you. only you.”
you gasp when his hands catch your knees, shoving them up, folding you without effort. the position’s obscene—your thighs pressed back against your chest, belly bending, cunt bared wide open and pulsing from his tongue. your breath hitches, panicked. “t-toji—don’t—this is—”
“a mating press,” he finishes for you, smug, watching your face as you squirm. “yeah. ‘cause i’m not lettin’ you go.”
his hand drops, tugging at the band of his sweats, shoving them low enough for his cock to spring free. and fuck—it’s a beast.
heavy, thick, flushed dark at the tip, veins bulging up the shaft like ridges meant to ruin you. a piercing gleams at the crown, metal catching the light when he spits into his palm and drags it down over the length. his fist works slow, deliberate, smearing spit along with the precum that’s already dripping out of him, down to his balls
your throat bobs hard. “oh my god—”
he laughs under his breath, eyes locked to yours, hand still stroking himself lazily like he has all the time in the world. “nah, not god. just me.” another stroke, heavier this time, and his pierced tip leaks more for it, sliding slick over his fist. “you’re starin’,” he teases, dragging the blunt head up your slit just to watch you jolt.
you moan, try to push his hand away, but it’s weak, shaky. “t-toji, please—it won’t fit, it’s huge—”
“shhh,” he interrupts, pressing the blunt head against your clit and grinding until you sob. “s’gonna fit. it’s what you were made for. i can smell it on you. smell how bad you want it. dog nose, y'know.”
his cock twitches, fat and needy in his hand, and he hisses through his teeth like even the thought of pushing in is almost enough to make him cum. “fuck, you’re gonna make me lose it before i’m even inside.”
toji leans down, lips brushing your ear, and you feel the scrape of his fangs when he growls, “too late for that. far too late. i’ve been holding back since the day i met you. you think a few little pills could stop this? don't make me laugh.”
he spits again, thick and wet, letting it drip down onto your pussy before grinding the head of his cock through it, coating himself in your mess. the fat tip drags cruelly over your clit, nudging your entrance, and for a merciless moment, he doesn’t push deeper. he just presses the blunt crown against your soaked hole, rocking it there, making you stretch around the swollen girth of the head alone until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling from the pressure.
the moment he shifts, you feel it before you see it—his claws anchor along your ribs as he presses you fully into the mattress, weight heavy and unrelenting, a hot, muscled animal pressed onto your chest. his ears flick constantly, twitching toward every breath, every shudder, every little whine that slips out of you as he lines himself with your dripping slit.
“ten inches left,” he groans, dragging the tip inside slowly, your walls fluttering tight and trembling over him. the burn is sharp, exquisite, impossible, stretching you wide in a way that makes your head tilt back, fingers clutching at the sheets.
“nine…” another deliberate push, inch by inch, his muscular waist shifting, fingers bracing on your hips, forcing them down as your thighs tremor around him. you can feel every roped ridge of his veins, the subtle scrape of metal against your slick walls, and it’s obscene, impossibly hot.
“eight. hold on a lil' more,” he pants, grinding once before pulling back slightly, letting you protest with a weak, “nngh—too much, too—” but he ignores you, leaning in to bite along your shoulder, leaving a line of teeth, fangs grazing your skin, leaving heat and sting in their wake.
his spit coats your belly as he drags the tip all the way to the hilt, then slides back, counting down each inch with a groan. “seven… six…” his claws dig into the mattress near your hands, tail whipping, ears flicking nervously, mouth open in a panting snarl, hips driving forward again.
he presses so fully, so deep, that your walls squeeze around him like they want to claim him as much as he’s taking you, the tip of his pierced cock scraping perfectly, dragging slick along your most vulnerable spots. “five… four…” he snarls low, breath hot against your ear, “s’been holding back long enough. not gonna stop.”
you try to protest, words broken by moans and gasps, “t-toji… mhfm—too big—” but he presses harder, fingers pushing your thighs wider, grinding you into him like he’s marking his territory. “three… two…” his voice rough, fangs grazing your inner thigh again, metallic glint in his piercing catching light every time he hovers, teasing you mercilessly.
and then—one. finally seated fully, eleven inches of him consuming every inch of your cunt. your breath hitchs uncontrollably, slick dripping down both of you, walls clenching, mouth agape, eyes watering from overstimulation. “fuck…” he rasps, chest heaving, nose brushing yours, ears flattened with intensity, tail curling tight around your leg. “you feel… so good. so tight… perfect…”
he hammers forward, slow and deliberate, then sloppy and wild, dragging the piercing against your slick walls, every grind making you shiver violently. his saliva coats your stomach, trailing down, and when he groans, it’s the sound of a demihuman completely undone by the one person he’s claimed. your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into the thick muscle, “mpfnn—fucking s-slow down—”
your legs are folded so hard against your chest it hurts, thighs trembling, knees pressing into your own ribs as he cages you there. his claws dig crescent moons into the back of your thighs, keeping them pinned wide in the mating press, and every brutal thrust makes your vision burst white. the stretch is obscene.
it’s not just his size—though eleven thick inches is more than enough—it’s the way he uses it. deep, grinding strokes that hurt in the best, filthiest way, leaving you with nothing but a whimpering sob each time his hips slam down.
“look at you,” he rasps, sweat dripping from his temple, his ears twitching erratically with every throb of your cunt. his voice is smug, mocking, even as his chest heaves like a beast in rut. “cryin’ already? and we’re not even halfway through. c’mon, thought you were tougher than this, babysitter.”
your cheeks are wet, tears spilling, not even sure when you started crying, only that you can’t stop. every lewd thrust forces a sob from your throat, your chest heaving against the weight of his hand when he suddenly presses his palm flat over your tummy, keeping you pinned to the mattress.
“toji—nghh, p-please—” your words fall apart on a hiss as he shoves deeper, the blunt head catching at your cervix, his piercing scraping so cruelly you clench down without wanting to.
“p-please what?” he pants, tail lashing hard against the mattress, the whip-crack sound matching the quick pace of his hips. his free hand snakes up, wraps tight around your throat—not cutting off all air, just enough to make every breath sound like a whimper. “say it. say you like it. say you like bein’ split open like this.”
your lips part around a broken sob, spit shining at the corner of your mouth. “i—it’s too much, can't take it all—”
he pulls out almost to the tip, then slams back in, the skin of the base of his cock wrinkling up as he bottoms out. “eleven, “ten—fuck, you’re takin’ all of it, aren’t you?” his piercing grinds along your walls with every count, making you choke on another sob.
you shake your head weakly at his words, but the sound that comes out through your lips is a whine, high and broken, your nails almost drawing blood from his shoulders.
“don’t shake your head at me,” he snarls, tightening his hand on your throat, squeezing until your eyes blur with tears. “you wanted this the second you let me stay in your bed. the second you let a beast under your roof. you knew what would happen.”
your cunt stretchs into a wide O shape to accommodate his girth helplessly, betrayal written all over your tear-streaked face as your body gives him away.
he feels it, groans ragged against your jaw, voice a harsh whisper, “knew you’d break. knew you’d let me wreck you. higher-ups can choke on their rules—nobody’s gonna stuff you this full but me.”
he tugs you close, folding you in half. uour knees are driven back, right next to your shoulders, his claws now digging painfully deep into your thighs. the angle is agony—a brute-force open that makes your cunt scream at the sheer stretch. even as the walls clench, desperate and tight around all twelve inches of him, he bullies his way in.
“look at this fuckin’ pussy,” he growls, voice rough, eyes blurry with heat. sweat drips from his temple down onto your chest. “takin’ me like it was made for it. you feel that? right up in your womb.” he grinds in circles, piercing scraping against the tenderest part of you, making your tummy bulge.
you cry out, a raw sound that hurts your throat, your nails clawing at his back. “s-stop, toji, it’s—oh fuck—” your voice breaks, tears streaking down your cheeks.
he snarls into your throat, pressing you further into the mattress until you can’t do anything but sob and take it. “don’t tell me stop when you’re gushin’ like this,” he hisses, his tongue dragging across your cheek, tasting salt and tears. “this greedy little hole won’t let me go even if i wanted to. it’s swallowin’ me whole.”
you choke on your own spit, eyes rolling back, thighs trembling violently as he pounds into you harder, every piston harder than last.
“gonna knock you up,” he rasps, eyes wide and staring down at you, voice breaking with a purr. “gonna fill you until you’re leaking with me. don’t care what those assholes say—only one makin’ puppies outta you is me.”
“n-no—” your words cuts off with a wail when he shifts, pumping deeper, crushing your knees harder into your chest until all you feel is pain and stretch and the raw slide of his cock tearing you open.
“yeah,” he spits down at you, saliva dripping onto your tongue when you gasp for breath. “open. swallow it. you’ll fuckin’ take everything.”
your chest is heaving, tits bouncing with every slam of his hips, and toji can’t take it anymore. his head dips, tongue lolling like some feral mutt, drool sliding hot and messy over your skin. he sucks at your nipple hard, teeth grazing just shy of breaking skin, and groans so loud it rattles in your chest.
“fuck, these—” he squeezes, kneading your tits together with his big calloused hands, spit dripping from his mouth as he latches again, harder, rough. “always wanted ‘em. every time you bent over in that tight shit—fuck—thought about stuffing my face right here, sucking on ‘em till you cried.”
you’re sobbing, writhing under the iron weight of him. “t-toji, i c-can’t—”
he ignores you, rutting harder, balls slapping against your ass, tail thudding madly against the sheets like he’s in heat and too far gone. ears twitch every time you cry out, like he’s tuned to your sounds, using them as fuel.
“don’t lie,” he growls around your nipple, spit slicking it raw as his fangs graze the bud. “you love it. tits bouncin’, cunt clenching down like it’s beggin’ for my knot.”
you choke on air, vision blurring with tears. “i-it hurts—”
“yeah? good.” he pulls off your chest with a wet pop, smirking through his own panting, sweat-slick hair plastered to his temples. “s’posed to hurt. you think eleven inches of cock and a fat knot’s ever gonna be gentle?”
your walls convulse around him and he snarls, hips stuttering. “knew it. dirty little cunt squeezin’ me tighter soon as i said it. i fantasized this for months, y’know. every fuckin’ night, watchin’ you walk around like you ain’t mine. dreamt about pinning you down just like this, stuffing you full till you couldn’t take another drop.”
his hand slaps your throat again, pressing you flat into the mattress as he jackhammers deeper, cock piercing grinding cruelly into your walls. you’re choking, tears spilling hot, drool leaking from your open mouth as you sob through the overwhelming stretch.
“come on, baby,” he pants, ears flat against his head. “don’t make me wait—i’ll fuck you all night if i gotta. thought about this too long to let you off easy. gonna milk a mess outta this pussy.”
he dives back down, slobbering over your tits again. his hips are desperate, cockhead bullying your insides again and again until your legs are shaking and your stomach cramps with every thrust.
“cum for me,” he purrs, biting at your nipple hard enough for you to wince. “cum on my cock like a good babysitter, or i’ll keep poundin’ you till you do.”
it creeps up on you like a fever, the kind that makes your skin too hot, your stomach tight and sour-sweet with anticipation. his cock drags so deep, piercing right up against your womb, that you can’t tell if the ache in your gut is pleasure or pain anymore—it’s both, tangled and knotted until you’re dizzy with it.
“nghh—fuck, s-stop, it’s too much—” your voice cracks, but your body doesn’t—won't obey. your hips buck up into him, chasing friction like you’re starving for it.
your clit throbs, the pressure building unbearable. you try to hold back, biting your lip so hard you taste blood, but he notices—the smug curl of his lips pressed to your neck.
“don’t you dare fight it,” he rasps, rutting harder, dark veins on his cock grinding against your walls. “come on. break for me. let me feel it.”
and then it rips out of you.
your whole body seizes, back arching so violently the sheets crumple under your fists. your cunt clamps down viciously around him, spasming like it’s trying to suck him in deeper, to keep him locked inside forever. hot gush after hot gush floods out of you, squirting around his length, dripping messily down your ass.
you scream—raw, nothing like words—just a strangled cry that fractures into whimpers as your thighs shake uncontrollably. your vision blurs with tears, drool slicks your chin, and every nerve ending feels on fire.
“holy fuck—look at that,” he groans, pupils blown wide as he stares down where your cunt gushes over him, milking his cock. his tail thrashes against the sheets, ears twitching like he’s overstimulated just watching you fall apart. “she’s squirtin’ all over me—nghh, fuck, good girl—squeezin’ so tight i can’t even move.”
your orgasm doesn’t end—it crashes again, another pulse, then another, until your whole lower body trembles in aftershocks, every squeeze of your cunt wringing his cock like a fist.
“hahhh—there it is. that’s the one i wanted,” he snarls, pressing you even deeper into the mating press as his cock throbs inside your spasming cunt. “pussy’s cryin’ for me. can feel it beggin’ for my cum...”
your orgasm barely fades when he suddenly goes still—hips grinding in tight, cock buried balls-deep, fat tip smashed against your cervix. you feel the pulse before you hear the sound—his guttural groan ripping out of his throat, animalistic, broken.
then it hits.
hot, thick cum spurts out in brutal waves, flooding your cunt so fast it bubbles back out around his cock. the sheer volume makes you choke, squirming under his weight as he holds you down, forcing every sticky drop inside.
“fuck—oh fuck, take it,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his temple to your face. “been holdin’ this shit back for months—” his ears flatten, tail smacking hard against the sheets with every pump of his cock. “look at you—fuckin’ stuffed like a breeder, takin’ every drop. nghhh—fuck!”
you’re crying again, hiccuping, because it won’t stop. hot gush after hot gush pours out of him, his knot swelling at the base, locking him inside you.
“t-toji—s’too much, i c-can’t—”
“shut up,” he growls, voice cracking as he ruts weakly, grinding to milk himself deeper. “c-can’t waste it. every drop’s for you. you’re carryin’ my pups, you hear me? they’ll split you open fatter than my cock.”
he leans down, mouth sloppy over your throat, fangs grazing your skin as he moans into you, almost whining. “nghhh—fuck, it’s so good. better than i thought. every time i looked at you, i imagined this—cumming inside, fillin’ you up, makin’ you whimper under me. hahh—”
his knot swells harder, locking him tight, and another gush of seed bursts out, forcing your womb to ache with the weight of it. slick leaks down your ass in a messy puddle, the smell of him pungent, feral, clinging to your skin.
your hands weakly push at his chest, but he only growls, thrusting shallow, cockhead grinding messy against your soaked walls.
“no use fightin’ it now,” he pants, eyes hazy, pupils blown wide. “too late. you’re already full. you’re mine for real now—gonna keep you knotted till it takes.”
your vision swims, tears and sweat dripping as his moans turn higher, needier, until he’s whining against your tits again, rutting like he’s still desperate even while his cock paints you full of filth.
“more,” he pants. “fuck—more. can’t stop. not till you’re pregnant with my pups. nghhh—look at that belly swellin’—s’my cum sittin’ inside.”
the bed is a wreck, sheets torn halfway off, your thighs trembling around his waist while he still grinds weak, messy little thrusts against the swollen knot locking him inside. his cock twitches, another lazy spurt of cum leaking deep, and you feel your stomach ache with the weight of it all.
“hahh… fuck, it won’t stop,” he moans, delirious, hips rolling like a dog stuck in instinct. his tail thumps against the mattress, ears pinned back, body hot and heavy over yours. “not done. not even close.”
you whimper, nails digging into his slick skin. “toji—no, y-you already came—”
“can’t stop,” he pants, rutting against your cervix, voice breaking with another high groan. “gonna fuck you till it takes. all night. you’ll see.”
and the starving look in his eyes tells you he means it.
your legs barely work. every muscle aches, your core throbs with a soreness that makes you dizzy just standing upright. the floor is cold under your bare feet as you point a finger at him, voice shaking more with outrage than weakness.
“what the fuck were you thinking?”
toji sits slouched against the wall, on the floor like some scolded mutt, shirtless, hair a mess. his ears twitch when you raise your voice, tail limp behind him. he doesn’t even talk back—just frowns at the floor, jaw tight, muscles still damp with the sweat of last night.
“you— you came inside me,” you snap, voice shaking with fury. “multiple times. like—like I was some fucking—breeding bitch. do you know how fucked up that is?!”
his eyes flicker up at you, then away again. silent.
“what do you think’s gonna happen if the higher-ups find out?” your voice cracks on the edge of hysteria. “you weren’t supposed to touch me, let alone—let alone fill me up like that!”
still, he doesn’t argue. doesn’t grin like he usually does. he just sits there, broad shoulders hunched, as if you really did kick him.
your throat tightens, and you blurt the fear before you can swallow it down. “what if I get pregnant, toji? what then? what the hell happens if I’m carrying your… your kids?”
his ears flick again, and for a second, you see it—the smug spark he usually hides behind. but it fades. instead, he just exhales, heavy, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“…then it’d mean you’re mine,” he says quietly, but the pout on his lips, the way he won’t meet your eyes—it makes him look less like the predator from last night and more like a dog left out in the rain.
your arms cross tight against your chest, pacing the length of the room because you can’t stand still—not when your body’s still aching, not when you can feel his cum leaking down your thighs with every step.
“you didn’t even ask me, toji.” your voice is sharper now, less shaky, simmering with anger that’s had hours to steep. “not once. you never asked if I wanted that. if I wanted you to—” your words tangle in your throat, bile and heat rising all at once, “—to put your kids in me.”
he flinches at that. actually flinches, ears twitching down flat against his head like you just swatted him. his tail gives a miserable little flick, then drops heavy to the floor.
“…don’t want my kids?” his voice is lower, not rough or cocky like last night—quiet, almost small.
you whip around to glare at him, finding him still sitting slumped against the wall, knees bent, arms resting loose on them. his big frame looks smaller somehow when he won’t look at you, when his mouth is pulled into a pout so obvious it would be laughable if you weren’t so furious.
“that’s not the point!” you snap. “the point is you didn’t even give me a choice. you just—just did whatever the hell you wanted, like my body’s some cage for you to breed in!”
his brows pinch, and finally he looks up. pout deepens. “but you’re my caretaker,” he says, and it comes out petulant, like a child defending stolen candy. “you always take care of me. feed me. keep me warm. why wouldn’t you want… y’know.”
“why wouldn’t I want what?”
“puppies,” he mutters, almost sulky enough to sound embarrassed, but not quite. “my puppies. with you.”
you stare, stunned into silence for a moment, and he takes that as his cue to keep sulking deeper, dropping his chin onto his forearms.
“s’cause it’s me, huh? you don’t wanna have kids with me.”
“toji,” your voice breaks sharper this time, but not with anger—with sheer disbelief. “you don’t get to pout about this. you never even gave me the chance to decide if I wanted any kids at all, let alone—” you stop, throat thickening again, “—let alone yours.”
his ears twitch, shoulders hunch tighter, and he looks away with that same pathetic pout pulling at his mouth. he mutters something under his breath you almost miss.
“…wouldn’t be so bad.”
you blink. “what?”
his gaze darts up to you again, just for a second, then skitters away. “if they were yours. ours. wouldn’t be so bad.”
and goddamn it—you hate the way your chest clenches at the sight of this mountain of a demihuman pouting on your floor, looking like he’s been told 'no' for the first time in his life.
he’s quiet for a while, just sitting there, tail heavy and ears drooping. you think maybe the silence means he’s letting it sink in—that maybe he understands how serious this is.
then you feel a tug.
you look down to find his big hand wrapped around the hem of your sweatpants, tugging it lightly, insistently, like a child trying to get attention.
“toji.” your voice sharpens.
he doesn’t look up. just gives another little tug. “…don’t mean it.”
“what?”
“you don’t mean it,” he repeats, this time finally tilting his head up, ears still low but his eyes huge, bright and wet in a way you’re not used to seeing. “you do want them. my kids.”
you take a step back, but his hand doesn’t let go. his tail flicks once, slow, cautious.
“toji, stop.” you try to peel his fingers away, but he only clings tighter, holding on to fabric with a stubbornness that makes your stomach twist.
“don’t wanna stop,” he mutters, finally pushing up from the floor to kneel at your feet. god, he’s too big like this, too much—towering even on his knees, his breath warm against your stomach as he tips his head back to look at you. “don’t wanna mate with anyone else. don’t wanna pups with anyone else. just you.”
your throat closes, a sharp ache clawing at the back of it. “you don’t—don’t even understand what you’re saying.”
he presses his forehead against your belly, arms winding around your thighs now, clinging like you might vanish if he loosens his grip. his pout is gone, replaced with something rawer, needier.
“understand enough,” he says, voice muffled against the thin fabric of your clothes. “been thinkin’ about it since the first night. you smell too good. too warm. always takin’ care of me. s’posed to be you. always was.”
his nose bumps clumsily against your stomach, then lower, dragging side to side like he’s scent-marking you. when you reach down to push him off, he only buries in deeper—muffling a sound that’s too close to a whine for someone his size.
“toji,” you sigh, torn between exasperation and the tug in your chest. “you can’t just—”
he cuts you off with a low rumble in his chest, not quite words, more like a growl pitched soft. his ears twitch against your body, brushing your shirt. his tail curls around the back of your legs like he’s trying to wrap you up completely.
you stand frozen, one hand hovering over the crown of his head, torn between shoving him away and giving in. and when he nuzzles again, nose skimming your hip this time, you feel your resolve fraying thread by thread.
“…you’re impossible,” you murmur, finally dropping your hand to his hair. he tilts into it immediately, ears flicking forward, eyes closing like you’ve handed him the world.
his arms cinch tighter, almost crushing, and something in you gives out. the words slip free before you can stop them, soft but heavy in the air between you:
“i do want them.”
he goes very still.
your pulse stutters, a frantic little rhythm against your ribs, but you don't stop. you can't. your fingers, almost of their own volition, curl tighter into the softness of his hair, a silent anchor as you pull him closer, until the warmth of him is all you can feel. and the truth, once dammed up, now tumbles out. “i do want a family,” you say, and the words feel like a key turning in a lock deep inside you. “with you. i want you.”
the admission hangs there, simple and immense. but then your voice hardens, just at the edges, like cooling metal. “just... don't ever try to fuck me like that again.”
you let the silence stretch, let the warning settle in the space.
“otherwise, i won't be responsible for what will happen.”
that’s all it takes. he lets out a choked noise—half laugh, half groan—and nuzzles harder, rubbing his cheek along your belly like he can already feel it swelling. his tail thumps once against the floor, eager and heavy. “yeah yeah, got it. so bossy”
and you knew with a heavy, certain feeling that settled deep in your chest: he wasn't going to let go. not ever.
mdni & animated divider by @/cafekitsune. reblogs & comments are appreciated <3
summary. once upon a horny night, a lonely dorm night turns steamy when an unexpected visitor crashes her private moment— masturbation. the usual no-strings hookup spirals into some cheap dicklaration of love.
word count. 14,6k words (pardon me, (・–・;)ゞ)
trigger and warning. college au, modern setting, friends with benefits to lovers, idiots in love, mutual pining, possessive gojo satoru, soft dom gojo satoru, gojo satoru is a menace, pervert gojo satoru, filthy smut with feelings, explicit sexual content, oral sex, cunnilingus, squirting, multiple orgasms, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink mentions, overstimulation, light manhandling (folded), doggy style, possessive behavior, gojo satoru has a big dick, praise kink, dirty talk, teasing, fluff and smut, post-sex cuddling, love confessions, confession during sex, confession after sex, emotional constipation
you are sprawled across your unmade bed in the cramped little dorm room that smells like a chaotic mix of vanilla candle wax, that cheap strawberry shampoo you’ve been using since freshman year, and something distinctly you—like warm skin and that faint horny musk that creeps up when you’ve been ignoring your needs for too long.
the lights are off except for the soft blue glow of your laptop screen painting everything in this hazy, porn-lit ambience, shadows dancing lazily on the posters peeling off your wall— one of them is that dumb anime print of gojo satoru you impulse-bought last year from his stupid bazaar because, well, look at him.
it’s quiet, too quiet for a wednesday night on campus, no drunk kids yelling in the hallway, no bass thumping from the floor below, just the low hum of your laptop fan and the wet, rhythmic sounds spilling from the speakers—some over-the-top video you found twenty minutes ago that’s doing way too good a job at getting you worked up.
your legs are kicked apart, one knee bent, foot planted on the mattress, the other leg dangling off the edge. those tiny shorts you’re wearing—the gray cotton ones that honestly should be classified as underwear—are riding so far up your thighs that the bottom curve of your ass is just straight-up out, peeking like it’s waving hello to anyone who might walk in. spoiler: no one’s walking in. you made sure to lock the door after your roommate texted she’s crashing at her boyfriend’s. perfect. privacy. freedom. the ability to be a complete degenerate in peace.
the laptop’s balanced precariously on your lower stomach, close enough that the heat from the bottom is making your skin all tingly, and every time you shift your hips (which is a lotttt, because god you’re restless), the screen wobbles and the volume spikes for a second—some girl in the video moaning like she’s getting paid per decibel. your hand is wedged between your thighs but you’re not touching yet, not really, just pressing your thighs together around your wrist like that’s gonna be enough to scratch the itch. it’s not. it’s soooo fucking not. you’re throbbing, swollen, slick enough that you can feel it when you clench, and you keep telling yourself just one more minute, just let it build, you greedy little monster.
your hair’s fanned out on the pillow like a halo you definitely don’t deserve right now, and there’s this dumb little pout on your lips because the guy in the video isn’t doing it right—he’s too gentle or something, and you’re over here imagining someone louder, meaner, someone who’d laugh at how desperate you look right now. someone like—
your phone buzzes on the nightstand, loud as a gunshot in the silence.
you jolt, thighs squeezing around your hand so hard you almost moan for real, and the laptop slides dangerously close to your crotch. you scramble to pause the video (too late, the girl on screen is mid-scream), and snatch your phone with sticky fingers.
it’s a text. from gojo satoru. of course it is.
the absolute clown prince of campus, the six-foot-three walking disaster with white hair and those stupid sunglasses he wears indoors like he’s hiding a permanent hangover— or just permanently high on his own ego. the guy who’s been in half your classes since sophomore year, who sits two rows behind you and spends lectures throwing crumpled paper at your head or texting you the dumbest memes imaginable. the guy who once ate an entire family-size bag of takis in ten minutes just to win a bet and then cried because his tongue “felt like sandpaper.” the guy who calls you “princess” in the most mocking, syrupy tone possible and then immediately ruins it by stealing your fries.
he’s your friend. kinda. your annoying, hot, unbearable, stupidly affectionate friend who flirts like it’s a competitive sport and then acts shocked when you flirt back. the one who texts you at 2 a.m. about the dumbest shit imaginable and somehow always knows when you’re awake.
the text reads:
gojo 🍼: yo why’s your snap story just a black screen with the candle emoji u dead or jerking off
you stare at it. then at the ceiling. then back at it.
another text pops up immediately.
gojo 🍼: wait don’t answer that
gojo 🍼: actually do
gojo 🍼: i’m outside your building
gojo 🍼: let me up it’s cold and i’m lonely and i brought snacks
your heart does this stupid flip that has nothing to do with the porn still paused on your screen. p.s. the guy’s dick is literally just hovering there, frozen mid-thrust, and you’re too flustered to close the tab. you sit up too fast, laptop nearly yeeting itself to the floor, and you have to grab it with both hands like a football. your thighs are sticky. your face is hot. your brain is short-circuiting.
another buzz.
gojo 🍼: unless ur busy fingering yourself to tentacle porn again in which case carry on queen i support women’s rights and wrongs
you choke on air. how does he—last time was one time and you were drunk and you told him in confidence and he’s never let you live it down.
you type back with trembling thumbs.
you: i hate you so much
you: go away
you: i’m studying
gojo 🍼: studying the inside of your pussy? valid
gojo 🍼: open the door i can see your light’s off from down here u little liar, which mean you are watching porn!
you glance at the window. the blinds are cracked just enough that yeah, someone standing on the quad could probably see the glow from your laptop. fuck.
you: i’m literally about to sleep
you: go bother someone else
gojo 🍼: can’t
gojo 🍼: everyone else is lame
gojo 🍼: and i miss your stupid face
gojo 🍼: also i have sour gummy worms and those melon ramune things you like
gojo 🍼: and i’m freezing my balls off
gojo 🍼: be a good girl and let me in
your stomach flips again, harder this time. be a good girl. he says that shit on purpose. he knows exactly what it does to you. you hate him. you hate him so much you could scream. you look down at yourself— tanktop ridden up to your ribs, shorts basically nonexistent, thighs glistening a little because yeah, you’re that worked up—and you imagine him seeing you like this and your brain blue-screens.
another buzz.
gojo 🍼: if you don’t answer in ten seconds i’m gonna start singing that one twice song you hate under your window
gojo 🍼: you know the one
gojo 🍼: the cheesy one
gojo 🍼: i know all the words
you can picture it so clearly—him standing out there in one of his dumb oversized hoodies, hair probably a mess from the wind, grinning like an idiot with a bag of snacks in one hand and his phone in the other, ready to make a complete spectacle. you groan, loud and dramatic, and flop back against the pillows. the laptop slides down to rest between your thighs now, and the paused video is still there mocking you.
you type:
you: fine
you: but if you make fun of me i’m kicking you in the dick
gojo 🍼: kinky
gojo 🍼: on my way princess <3
you throw the phone across the bed like it’s possessed and immediately regret every life choice that led you here. you scramble to close the twelve incognito tabs you have open— why are there so many, what is wrong with you?, slam the laptop shut, and shove it under your pillow like that’ll erase the evidence. your room smells like sex and vanilla and faint strawberry. your heart is hammering so hard you can hear it in your ears.
you yank your shorts down a little—sort of, they don’t go far—and pull your tanktop lower to cover the wet spot on the front that you’re praying isn’t visible, which by the way is a useless act of being a modest. you flick on the fairy lights strung over your headboard because total darkness feels too suspicious now, and the soft golden glow makes everything look a little less like a crime scene and more of a way of telling gojo you are horny and eager for sex.
there’s a knock. three quick raps, then two slow ones. his stupid secret knock he came up with last month because he’s twelve years old. you pad over to the door on bare feet, take a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm you down, and yank it open.
there he is. gojo satoru in all his annoying glory—hoodie half-zipped, hair fluffy and windswept, cheeks pink from the cold, holding up a plastic convenience store bag like a trophy. his sunglasses are pushed up into his hair even though it’s pitch black outside, and he’s grinning that wide, stupid, lopsided grin that makes your knees feel unreliable. “hi baby,” he says, voice all soft and teasing, eyes already flicking down your body and lingering on your legs like he’s cataloging every inch of exposed skin. “miss me?”
you want to die. you want to drag him inside and never let him leave. you want to slam the door in his face and also maybe bite him. instead you just glare, cheeks burning, and step aside. “get in before someone sees you, idiot.”
you shuffle backward into the dim glow of your fairy lights, bare feet dragging across the fuzzy rug you stole from communal living room last semester, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it always does when he's around—like a moth banging against a lightbulb, desperate and dumb. the door clicks shut behind him with a soft, final snick, and you hear the lock turn too, that little metallic scrape that makes your stomach drop straight between your legs because yeah, he locked it. of course he did. gojo satoru doesn't do anything halfway, especially not when he smells blood in the water—or in this case, the thick, sweet scent of your arousal still hanging in the air like a neon sign screaming horny loser lives here.
he saunters in like he owns the place (he doesn't, but try telling him that), plastic bag crinkling in his fist as he drops it onto your cluttered nightstand—right on top of your half-eaten bag of hot cheetos and that one textbook you've been using as a coaster for three weeks. the gummy worms and ramune bottles clink together inside like a promise. you perch on the edge of your bed, knees pressed together now because suddenly you're aware of how fucking wet you are, how the seam of your tiny shorts is probably soaked through, and if you spread your legs even a little he's gonna see it. like a fucking shark, he’s gonna smell it. he's gonna know. he always knows.
you watch him with half-lidded eyes as he shrugs out of his hoodie, that big dumb black one he wears even when it's not cold, just because it makes him look like some brooding anime protagonist. he tosses it over your desk chair where it lands in a heap on top of yesterday's laundry (including the panties you wore to class, oops— which gojo gonna steal later), and now he's just in that loose white t-shirt, the one that's a size too big and hangs off his shoulders in the most infuriatingly hot way. the fabric clings a little to his chest from the chill outside, and you can see the faint outline of his nipples because of course. pervert.
he turns to you finally, slow and deliberate, and those stupidly blue eyes lock onto yours like lasers. his hair's all messed up from the wind, white strands sticking out everywhere, and his sunglasses are still perched on his head like a crown for the king of being annoying.
“i was about to call you,” you say, voice coming out breathier than you meant it to, leaning back on your hands so your tanktop rides up just enough to flash a strip of your stomach. you're trying to play it cool but your palms are sweaty against the comforter and your thighs keep clenching involuntarily.
he hums, low and interested, eyebrows shooting up as that slow, filthy smirk spreads across his pink lips—the kind of smirk that says he's already three steps ahead and winning whatever game this is. “yeah?”
he steps closer, towering over you even though you're sitting on the bed, and then he's leaning down, planting one hand on either side of your thighs, caging you in. his fingers dig into the mattress, knuckles brushing the bare skin of your legs, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell that stupid clean-boy scent mixed with the cold night air clinging to his shirt.
you nod, just a little, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from moaning at how close he is. “yeah.”
“and why were you gonna call me, princess?” his voice drops, all velvet and menace, and then—fuck—his thumbs hook under the hem of your shorts, just barely, brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs in these slow, deliberate strokes. back and forth. back and forth. like he's petting you. like he's already got you figured out. “what was the big emergency?”
you smile, slow and knowing, eyes dropping to his mouth—those soft, obnoxious lips you've thought about way too many times—and then flicking up to meet his gaze, bright and electric behind those long lashes. your hand moves without permission, reaching up to pluck the sunglasses off his head. his hair flops forward a little as you slide them onto your own face, the world tinting darker, cooler. you shrug, all fake innocence, tilting your head.
“i don't know,” you murmur, voice syrupy sweet even as your heart hammers against your ribs, “maybe like... a 911 fucking emergency?”
his eyes darken instantly, pupils blowing wide behind the faint reflection of the fairy lights in his irises. because yeah, that's your code. that's been your code since that one drunk night sophomore year when you both admitted you'd rather die than actually say “i need to fuck” out loud like normal people. 911 fucking emergency means i'm so horny i'm malfunctioning and if you don't fix it i'm going to combust. it means come over right now and ruin me. it means please.
he lets out this low, broken laugh, half groan, head dropping forward for a second like you've wounded him. “oh my god,” he breathes, thumbs pressing harder into your thighs now, sliding higher, dangerously close to where you're aching and empty and dripping for him. “you're such a fucking menace. you were—wait.” his head snaps up, eyes narrowing with delighted suspicion. “what were you doing before i got here, huh? don't lie to me, baby. your room smells like pussy. were you really watching porn?”
you shove at his chest weakly, laughing even as heat floods your face. “shut up! oh my god, get out of my room if you're gonna be mean about it.”
“mean?” he gasps dramatically, clutching his heart like you've stabbed him, but he doesn't move back an inch—in fact, he leans in closer, nose brushing yours through the sunglasses lenses. “baby, i'm never mean. i'm observant. i'm helpful. i'm literally a humanitarian for showing up to your little... crisis.” his thumbs trace the edge of your shorts again, tugging just enough that the fabric shifts and cool air hits your damp skin. you whimper, actually whimper, hips twitching forward without your permission. “look at you,” he coos, voice dripping with fake sympathy and real hunger. “poor thing. all alone in the dark, touching yourself to god knows what—tentacles again? or was it that one video with the guy who kinda looks like me but lamer?”
“he did not look like you,” you lie, shoving the sunglasses up into your hair so you can glare at him properly. “he was way hotter. better dick too, probably.”
gojo's grin turns sharp, predatory, and he drops to his knees in one fluid motion, hands sliding up to grip your thighs properly now, spreading them just enough that you have to catch yourself on your elbows or fall back. “oh yeah?” he murmurs, voice dangerously soft, eyes locked on the wet spot darkening the front of your shorts like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. “that's fucked up, princess. here i am, actual best dick on campus, and you're out here settling for knockoffs? we gotta fix that.”
your breath hitches, legs trembling in his hands, and you know—he knows—you're already gone. already his. already desperate for whatever mean, sweet, stupid thing he's about to do to you.
“satoru,” you whisper, and it's half warning, half plea. he looks up at you through his lashes, beautiful and terrible, and smiles like the devil himself.
“shhh,” he says, thumbs stroking soothing circles even as his eyes promise chaos. “i've got you, baby. emergency services have arrived.”
your fingers dig into that fluffy white chaos of his hair the second his face dips back down between your thighs, like you're desperately trying to haul him away before he wrecks you completely, but let's be real—your grip is weak as hell, more of a caress disguised as resistance because deep down, you’re already melting into the mattress from the anticipation alone.
“satoru, no—” you half-whisper, half-moan, voice cracking like cheap glass as his nose presses right up against your throbbing clit through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts, nudging it with this slow, teasing precision that sends electric shocks straight up your spine and makes your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the pressure even as your brain screams abort mission. the contact is muffled but devastating, the heat of his breath seeping through the cotton like steam from a hot spring, making everything down there pulse and clench in this desperate, empty rhythm that has you seeing spots.
you whimper—actually whimper—high-pitched and embarrassing, the sound slipping out before you can clamp your lips shut, and you tug harder on his hair, yanking like you’re trying to reel in a wild animal, but all it does is make him groan deep in his chest, this low, rumbling vibration that travels right through the fabric and buzzes against your pussy like a goddamn toy on low speed. “fuck, baby,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled and wrecked, “pull harder, i like it when you’re mean to me.”
the sensation hits you like a truck, thighs trembling and squeezing around his head on pure instinct you nearly knee him in the face, toes curling into the rumpled sheets as waves of heat radiate outward from your core, making your stomach flip and your breath hitch in your throat. it’s too much, too good, too filthy for how innocent it looks, and you can feel yourself getting even wetter, the damp spot on your shorts spreading like evidence of your betrayal.
“satoru,” you call out again, voice shaky and pleading now, not because you actually want him to stop—god no—but because underneath all this horniness there’s this stupid, sappy ache in your chest that you refuse to acknowledge out loud. you’ve missed him, really missed him, like a hole in your routine that no amount of solo sessions or dumb memes from mutual friends could fill.
he’s been off on that fancy family vacation to some exotic island paradise—probably sipping piña coladas on white sand beaches while you were stuck here in your dim dorm, drowning in lecture notes and rainy campus days, feeling lonelier than a forgotten sock under the bed. sure, him diving face-first into your pussy sounds like heaven right now, his tongue and lips and that obnoxious confidence turning you into a puddle, but tonight? you want more—something softer, stupider, like cuddling under your fairy lights while he rambles about dumb vacation stories, or him stealing your snacks and calling you pet names until you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. you’d die before admitting it though; vulnerability is for losers, and you’re not about to hand him that kind of ammo.
so you tug his hair even harder, really yanking this time with both hands, fingers twisting in the soft strands until his head snaps back and he lets out this dramatic yelp that echoes off your posters like he's been shot. he pulls away from your pussy reluctantly, rising up on his knees with one hand clutching his scalp, those bright blue eyes wide and accusatory as he stares down at you like you've committed treason.
“ow, fuck—okay, okay, i know i like it rough but you’re literally gonna make me bald, woman,” he whines, blue eyes all wide and wounded like you’ve committed a war crime, voice pitching up into that whiny drawl he pulls out when he's being extra pathetic, rubbing the spot vigorously as if soothing a battle wound. “what’s with the violence? i was about to give you the best head of your life. i missed you too but damn.”
you chuckle, but it's broken and breathy, catching in your throat like a hiccup because you're still reeling from the ghost of his vibration down there, your clit throbbing in protest at the sudden loss of contact, legs shifting restlessly against the sheets and now he’s looking at you like a kicked puppy and it’s doing things to your chest. “i told you to stop, idiot,” you manage, trying to sound firm but coming off more like a winded mess, cheeks flushed hot under the dim fairy lights that cast everything in this soft, golden haze.
he flops forward dramatically, forehead thumping against your collarbone all long limbs and needy energy, long body draping over yours like he belongs there— he does, shut up. he whines immediately, loud and theatrical, flopping forward onto his elbows so his face is hovering inches from yours, lower lip jutting out in the world's most exaggerated pout. “why stop though?” he complains into your skin, voice muffled and petulant. “i’ve been dreaming about your pussy for two whole weeks. all i could think about was how you taste when you’re desperate and mean. and i was about to make you see god, baby. i practiced in the shower the whole vacation just thinking about you. that’s dedication— ”
but he's already leaning closer before you can answer, being all dramatic as usual, nuzzling into the curve of your neck with these hot, open-mouthed kisses that trail down your skin like molten lava, leaving wet little marks that cool in the air and make you shiver. his hands slide up under your tank top, pushing the fabric higher until it bunches under your arms, and he tugs the neckline down with his teeth—teeth!—until one of your tits spills free, nipple pebbling instantly in the chill of the room, exposed and begging for attention like it's got a mind of its own. he makes this satisfied little humming noise before latching on like he’s starving.
“satoru,” you warn again, but it’s softer this time, playful, fingers still tangled loosely in his hair. but he is being a fucking baby, a menace, he sometimes— often— pretend he doesn't hear you when he gets all horny and pervert. “satoru,” you call his name again, a playful warning laced with laughter, because god he's being such a baby about this, all needy and clingy and over-the-top, pressing his body against yours like he can't bear even an inch of space between you two.
“satoru,” you say again, half-laughing, half-moaning as he sucks a bruise right above your nipple. “you’re such a fucking baby.”
he pulls off with a wet pop, lips shiny, eyes glazed and happy. “your baby,” he corrects smugly, then dives back in to bite gently at the swell of your breast. “missed these too. they got bigger or am i just delusional from lack of titty in my life?”
you roll your eyes so hard it hurts. “you were gone forever,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed but mostly just sounding pouty. “twelve days on some fancy beach with cocktails and sunshine and you didn’t even bring me a stupid souvenir. what kind of boyfriend fake-thing are you? i was here rotting in exam season and seasonal depression and you couldn’t even grab a keychain? what’s wrong with you? people bring back keychains, tacky magnets, something. you bring back nothing but blue balls and harassment.”
he hums against your skin, the vibration tickling as he bites down gently on the swell of your exposed tit, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp before he pulls away with a wet smack, lips shiny and smirking. “you want a gift?”
you shrug, trying to play it nonchalant even though your heart is doing that dumb fluttery thing, arms crossing over your chest— which only pushes your tit up higher, oops— as you look away toward the window, pretending the peeling poster on your wall is suddenly fascinating. “i mean, whatever. it's not like i was expecting anything or whatever.”
he stares at your face for a long beat, those piercing blue eyes narrowing like he’s trying to read your mind— he probably is, nosy bastard, like he's peeling back your layers one by one, reading every unspoken word in your expression—the way your lips twitch, the faint blush creeping up your neck—and then he nods slowly, that filthy grin spreading wide. “oh, i’ve got a gift for you,” he says, voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes your stomach clench. “it's right here in my pants, big one. thick. veiny. best souvenir ever, guaranteed to make you scream. you’ve been begging for it in your texts like a little slut—”
you slap his shoulder immediately, hard enough to make a satisfying thwack, but not enough to actually hurt, laughing even as heat floods your face. “i don't want your dick, you pervert!”
he raises both eyebrows so high they nearly hit his hairline, leaning back on his heels with this mock-shocked expression, hand flying to his chest like you've mortally offended him. “you... don't want my dick? the dick that's had you begging and babbling nonsense every other time? the dick that's basically your favorite toy? wow, okay, noted—i'll just go cry in the corner now.”
“wait—no, fuck, obviously i want your dick,” you correct quickly, words tumbling out in a rush because the thought of him actually thinking that makes your stomach twist, cheeks burning as you shove at him again, lighter this time. “don’t look at me like that, you’re the worst. i want it eventually. later. after. but i want something else too, you dumbass—like an actual gift, not just your ego-stroking appendage.”
he gasps, clutching imaginary pearls before breaking into that bright, stupid laugh that always makes your insides melt, then sighs like you've asked for the moon. “there’s something you want more than my perfect, magnificent, life-changing cock? i’m wounded. i’m devastated. i need to speak to the manager of you.”
“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re smiling despite yourself, cheeks hot.
he sighs dramatically, standing back on his heels, “fine, fine, princess demands variety—i can work with that.” he shifts, digging into the front pocket of his jeans with exaggerated effort, the motion making the shirt ride up and you get a prime view of his abs flexing and fabric pull tight across his thighs and the faint happy trail disappearing into his waistband and highlighting the obvious bulge there— god, he's already half-hard just from this—focus— and pulls out a small velvet box, not ring-sized but compact enough to fit in his palm, black and sleek with a subtle sheen under the lights.
your eyebrows shoot up, curiosity overriding everything as you sit up a little straighter, tank top still askew and tit hanging out like a casual accessory. “fancy,” you tease, voice lilting with mock surprise, eyes flicking from the box to his face where that smug grin is firmly in place. “what is it, a promise ring? gonna ask me to go steady, satoru?”
he , flicking the box open with his thumb, and inside is a necklace. delicate silver chain, thin and shiny, with a little pendant hanging from it—a tiny, elegant script “satoru” in cursive,
he snorts, flicking the lid open with his thumb to reveal the necklace inside—delicate silver chain, fine and shimmering like it was spun from moonlight, with a pendant that's a small, elegant cursive script spelling out “satoru” in looping letters, the ‘o’ replaced by a heart-shaped pink stone. not garish pink, soft rose quartz maybe, soft and blushing, cut with these subtle facets catching the fairy lights and throwing little flecks of shimmer across his fingers, tiny rainbows across the velvet lining, warm and romantic in a way that clashes hilariously with how possessive it is. it’s pretty. it’s really pretty. it’s also extremely possessive.
you groan immediately, loud and drawn-out, flopping back against the pillows with your hands over your face like the sight of it pains you. “i’m not wearing that.”
“what? why not?” he sounds genuinely offended, holding it up to dangle in front of your face. the pink stone swings like a hypnotist’s charm. “it’s custom! i had it made! look how cute the little heart is—”
“it’s literally a collar,” you deadpan, glaring at him even as your cheeks heat up. “like you’re branding me. ‘property of gojo satoru, if found return to owner.’ i’m not your pet, you neanderthal.”
he gasps, clutching imaginary pearls. “a collar? baby, this is couture. this is loveeee. this is me saying ‘i was on a stupid beach thinking about you the whole time and spent way too much money on something that has my name on it because i’m obsessed with you.’ this is me spending an embarrassing amount of money on vacation to get it custom made because i saw the pink stone and thought ‘that’s her color when she comes.’ but sure, call it a collar, you ungrateful brat.”
you stare at him. he stares back, lower lip wobbling in the most over-the-top pout you’ve ever seen, necklace still dangling from his fingers like a peace offering.
you choke on air, face burning. “you did not just say that.”
“i did,” he says proudly, crawling over you again until he’s straddling your hips, necklace dangling above your chest like a threat. “and you love it. admit it. you want my name right here—” he taps the hollow of your throat, right where the pendant would rest, “—so every time you look in the mirror you remember who makes you dumb and drippy and desperate.”
you stare up at him, heart hammering against your ribs, the pink heart swinging gently between you like a hypnotist’s charm. he’s grinning that stupid, soft, menace grin—equal parts pervert and lovesick—and you know you’re fucked.
“...the stone is pretty,” you mumble eventually, looking anywhere but his eyes.
his whole face lights up like christmas morning. “right? it’s rose quartz. supposedly good for love and healing and all that spiritual bullshit, but mostly it matches your pussy when you’re—” you slap a hand over his mouth before he can finish, but you’re laughing, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. he licks your hand again, slow and deliberate, then pulls it away to beam down at you.
he chuckle, bright and stupid and yours, and leans over you again, the necklace pooled in his palm. “let me put it on you? please? just try it. if you hate it i’ll wear it as an anklet or something. very avant-garde.”
you roll your eyes so hard it’s a workout, but you’re already tilting your head back, lifting your hair off your neck in silent surrender.
because yeah. you missed him so much it’s stupid. because yeah, you want his name against your skin more than you want air right now. because yeah, you’re completely, hopelessly gone for this absolute idiot.
he fastens it carefully, fingers brushing your throat like he’s handling something precious, and when the little pink heart settles into place he leans down to kiss it—soft, reverent, right over your pulse.
he shifts back just enough to stand at the edge of the bed properly, long fingers still cradling the delicate chain like it’s the most fragile thing in the world, even though we both know he’s about to wreck you in approximately thirty seconds. you tilt your chin up higher, hair spilling over your shoulders and onto the pillows, exposing the full column of your throat because yeah, you’re giving in, you’re letting him brand you like some lovesick idiot and you can’t even pretend to hate it. the silver is cool when it first touches your skin, a sharp little contrast to how hot you’re running everywhere else, and he drapes it carefully, the tiny pink heart pendant settling right in the dip between your collarbones like it was made to live there. his fingertips brush the hollow of your throat as he fastens the clasp—slow, reverent, almost tender—and you feel the exact moment it clicks shut, like a lock snapping into place. his. officially. embarrassingly. perfectly.
he just stares, blue eyes going dark and hungry, pupils swallowing up all that ridiculous sky color as he drinks you in. the fairy lights catch on the silver chain and the rose quartz heart, making it shimmer every time you breathe, and his gaze keeps flicking from the pendant to your face to your still-exposed tit like he can’t decide where to look first. “fuck,” he breathes, voice rougher than before, almost reverent in the filthiest way. “you look... fuck, baby. you look so pretty with my name on you. like you were always supposed to wear it. jesus christ, i’m literally gonna cum in my pants just thinking about fucking you stupid while that little heart bounces between your tits.”
you laugh—soft, breathless, a little embarrassed because god he’s so much—and the sound makes the pendant tremble against your skin. “you’re so dramatic,” you manage, but your voice cracks on the last syllable because he’s looking at you like you’re a miracle and it’s doing things to your chest.
he chuckles low in his throat, the sound vibrating straight to your clit, and leans forward to brace his hands on either side of your head. “dramatic? princess, i’m serious. two weeks without this pussy and now you’re sitting here all flushed and marked up as mine? i’m half a second from nutting untouched. be nice to me.”
you slap his shoulder again, light and playful, fingers lingering on the warm cotton of his shirt. “shut up, pervert.” but then your hands are sliding up, wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him down because you need his mouth on yours now. he comes willingly—eagerly—crashing into the kiss like he’s been starving for it. his lips are soft and greedy, tongue sliding against yours in that perfect messy way that always makes your head spin, tasting like the melon ramune he probably chugged on the way over and something that’s just him. he groans into your mouth, low and desperate, one hand cupping your jaw while the other slides down to palm your bare tit, thumb flicking over your nipple until you’re arching up into him with a soft mmph.
he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard, lips brushing with every word. “okay,” he whispers, voice wrecked and filthy, “now take those shorts off so i can finish what i started. gift time’s over, time for the real present—my tongue in your—”
you slap a hand over his mouth fast, palm pressing against those plush lips before he can finish the sentence, but you’re laughing so hard your whole body shakes with it, the necklace tinkling softly against your skin. “satoru, oh my god, you’re disgusting.”
he doesn’t even fight it—just licks a slow, deliberate stripe across your palm, hot and wet and utterly shameless, eyes locked on yours the whole time. you squeal, yanking your hand away and wiping it on his shirt. “ew! you animal!”
“you love it,” he grins, already sliding down your body like a man on a mission, big hands hooking into the waistband of your tiny shorts. you lift your hips without thinking, letting him drag them down your thighs along with your soaked panties in one smooth motion. the cool air hits your dripping pussy and you shiver, thighs trying to close on instinct, but he’s already wedging his broad shoulders between them, spreading you wide open for his greedy gaze.
“ffffuck,” he groans, long and drawn-out, staring at you like you’re a feast and he’s been fasting for weeks. “look at you. look at this pretty fucking pussy. missed her so much—dreamed about her every single night on that stupid trip. jerked off in the hotel shower thinking about how you taste when you’re all swollen and needy like this. you have no idea.”
he doesn’t wait for permission—he never does—just dives in like a starving man, mouth hot and wet and perfect as he licks a slow, filthy stripe up your slit from entrance to clit. you cry out immediately, sharp and broken, “ah—satoru!”—back arching off the bed as your hands fly to his hair again, gripping tight. he groans into you, the vibration making your thighs tremble around his head, and then he’s devouring you, tongue swirling around your clit in tight circles before sucking it into his mouth with just the right amount of pressure.
“mmph, fuck! yesss,” you’re already babbling, hips rolling up to meet his mouth, the necklace bouncing lightly against your chest with every jerk of your body. he pulls back for a second just to spit on your pussy—gross, hot, perfect—watching it drip down your folds before licking it back up, humming like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
“so fucking wet,” he mumbles against you, voice muffled as he buries his face deeper, nose nudging your clit while his tongue pushes inside you, curling and thrusting like he’s trying to fuck you with it. “tastes better than i remembered. my favorite meal. should’ve brought you with me—would’ve eaten this every morning on the beach instead of that overpriced brunch bullshit.”
you moan loud and shameless, “oh god—satoru, don’t stop.” fingers yanking at his hair hard enough that he hisses, but it only makes him double down, sucking your clit into his mouth again while two long fingers slide into you without warning, curling right against that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges.
“fuck—right there—” your voice cracks, thighs clamping around his head as he finger-fucks you slow and deep, tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit in time with every thrust. the wet sounds are obscene—slurping, sucking, your own slick coating his chin—and he’s moaning into you like he’s the one getting pleasured, hips grinding against the mattress for friction because he’s that worked up just from tasting you.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips shiny and swollen, eyes wild. “gonna make you fall apart on my tongue, baby. been thinking about this for two weeks straight—how you sound when you’re close, how you shake, how you drown me. not stopping till you’re begging.”
then he’s back at it, fingers pumping faster, tongue lashing your clit in quick, mean little flicks that have your legs shaking and your moans turning into desperate little sobs, “satoru, please—fuck—i’m. . .” toes curling into the sheets, the necklace warm against your skin now from your body heat, the little pink heart glinting every time you arch.
he doesn’t even give you a second to catch your breath, just slides those big hands under your thighs and yanks you down the bed like you weigh nothing, the sheets bunching under your back as your ass hits the edge of the mattress with a soft thump. you squeak—actually squeak, embarrassing as hell—and he laughs all bright and obnoxious, that stupid triumphant grin splitting his face as he drops to his knees on the floor like he’s praying at the altar of your pussy.
“c’mere, princess,” he coos, voice syrupy sweet and filthy all at once, hooking your legs over his shoulders so your thighs are draped across his back, knees bent, feet dangling uselessly. the position spreads you wide open for him, everything on display, slick and swollen and glistening under the fairy lights, and he just stares for a second like he’s memorizing it, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“fuck, look at you,” he groans, dragging it out dramatic and reverent, one hand splayed across your lower stomach to hold you down while the other slides two long fingers up and down your slit, coating them in your wetness before pushing in slow. you’re so soaked they slip right in to the knuckle, curling instantly against that spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you moan loud and broken, “ah—satoru, fuck. . ” hips bucking up into his hand on instinct.
he hums all satisfied, pumping his fingers lazy at first, scissoring them just to watch you clench and drip around him. “that’s it, baby, open up for me. been dreaming about this greedy little pussy every night—how tight you get when i do this—” he crooks his fingers harder, pressing right up against your g-spot and holding the pressure, thumb coming up to rub messy circles over your clit. your back arches off the bed, thighs trembling over his shoulders, and he leans in closer, mouth hovering just above where his fingers are buried inside you, breath hot against your skin.
“gonna make you squirt all over my face,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked on yours as he starts fucking you with his fingers in earnest—fast, deep, relentless, the wet squelch of it filling the room along with your gasping moans. “mmph—yes, right there—don’t stop. ..” you’re already babbling, hands fisting the sheets, the necklace bouncing against your chest with every thrust of his hand. he sticks his tongue out flat and needy, hovering right over your clit like he’s waiting for it, eyes half-lidded and wild.
“c’mon, pretty girl,” he coaxes, all soft and mean at the same time, curling his fingers in a brutal come-hither motion while his thumb presses down hard on your clit. “give it to me. soak me. wanna taste you when you lose it—wanna feel you squirt all over my tongue like a good little slut—”
the pressure builds so fast it’s dizzying, that tight coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter with every stroke, every filthy word dripping from his mouth. your thighs start shaking harder, toes curling against his back, and he can feel it—he knows—because he doubles down, fingers pistoning in and out, palm slapping against your pussy with every thrust, tongue still out and waiting like a goddamn target.
“satoru, fuck, i’m gonna—oh god—”
it hits you like a freight train, the orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision whites out for a second. your whole body locks up, back bowing off the bed as you squirt—hard, messy, unstoppable—clear fluid gushing out around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, splashing across his face, his waiting tongue, dripping down his chin and neck in hot streaks. he groans loud and wrecked, “fuuuck, yes—” mouth open to catch as much as he can, swallowing greedily, eyes rolling back like he’s the one coming undone.
you’re still twitching, aftershocks ripping through you as he keeps fingering you through it, drawing out every last spurt until you’re whimpering oversensitive and trying to squirm away. he finally slows, pulling his fingers out with a wet sound and immediately sucking them clean, humming like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. his face is drenched—shiny with you, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen and red—and he looks up at you with this dazed, blissful grin, licking his lips slow and deliberate.
“holy shit,” he breathes, voice hoarse, wiping his chin with the back of his hand only to lick that clean too. “you just baptized me, baby. i’m reborn. this is my new religion—your pussy is my god now.”
you’re still panting, legs jelly over his shoulders, brain thoroughly melted, but you manage a weak laugh that turns into another moan when he leans in to press a soft, reverent kiss right to your throbbing clit. “you’re so fucking gross,” you whisper, but your fingers are already in his hair again, petting gently, affectionately, because god you missed this idiot and his dumb dramatic face covered in you.
he nuzzles into your thigh, smearing more of your mess across his cheek like a cat marking its territory. “gross? baby, this is art. this is love. this is the best welcome home present ever—better than any stupid beach sunset.” he kisses your inner thigh, then the other, soft and sweet now, contrast to the absolute menace he just was. “thank you for the facial, princess. ten out of ten, would drown again.”
you tug his hair lightly, pulling him up toward you because you need his mouth on yours now, need to taste yourself on him, need to feel him close. he crawls up willingly, hovering over you with that stupid lovesick grin, face still glistening under the lights.
“you’re never leaving for two weeks again,” you mumble against his lips, arms wrapping around his neck, the necklace cool against both of your skin now. “never,” he promises, voice soft and serious for once, before ruining it with a filthy smirk. “not when i’ve got a five-star pussy buffet waiting at home. now kiss me, you squirting goddess—i earned this.”
you’re still floating in that hazy post-squirt fog, limbs heavy and tingling like you’ve been electrocuted in the best way, chest heaving under the soft weight of the necklace that keeps catching the fairy lights every time you breathe. your pussy is throbbing, oversensitive and fluttering around nothing, thighs slick with your own mess, and gojo is still on his knees between them looking like he just survived a hurricane made entirely of you. his face is an absolute crime scene—shiny and dripping, hair stuck to his forehead in white spikes, lips red and swollen like he’s been making out with your clit for hours (he basically has). he’s grinning like an idiot, tongue peeking out to lick another stray drop off the corner of his mouth, eyes glazed with pure unfiltered bliss.
“god,” he rasps, voice hoarse from all the moaning he did into your pussy like a fucking animal, wiping his chin with the back of his hand only to immediately suck his fingers clean again because he’s disgusting and perfect. “you just hosed me down, baby. full-on super soaker. i look like i got caught in a rainstorm of pussy juice. i’m never washing my face again—this is my new skincare routine.”
you laugh, breathless and wrecked, kicking weakly at his shoulder with one heel where it’s still draped over him. “you’re so nasty, satoru—oh my god, get up here before i die of secondhand embarrassment.”
“embarrassment?” he gasps, all fake offense, standing up slow and predatory, dragging his wet chin across your stomach, between your tits, leaving a shiny trail like he’s marking territory. “baby, this is a badge of honor. i’m wearing your cum like war paint. i’m a warrior. a pussy-eating champion. they should give me a medal—or another round.”
he settles over you finally, forearms braced on either side of your head, caging you in as his hips slot between your thighs like they belong there. his shirt is clinging to him now from the splash zone, white fabric gone semi-transparent over his chest, and you can see the faint outline of his nipples and the stupidly defined lines of his abs. he’s hard—painfully hard—cock straining against his jeans in a thick line that presses right up against your bare pussy when he rolls his hips once, slow and teasing. you both groan at the contact, your oversensitive clit dragging against the rough denim, and you feel another helpless gush of wetness leak out of you.
“fuck,” you whimper, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in because holy shit you’re still so sensitive but you want more, you always want more with him. “satoru—too much—i’m—”
“shhh, i know, i know,” he soothes, but his voice is all dark and hungry, dipping down to kiss you slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself all salty-sweet and tangy on his tongue. he licks into your mouth like he’s still starving, swallowing your little moans, “mmph. . ” while his hips grind in lazy circles, rubbing his clothed cock against your soaked folds just to watch you squirm. “you’re all sensitive and shaky now, huh? my poor little baby, came so hard she painted my face. look at you—still dripping for me. greedy pussy can’t get enough.”
you whine into his mouth, high and needy, “satoru—please. . .” legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, trying to pull him closer even though the friction is bordering on too much. the necklace shifts with every roll of your bodies, the little pink heart pressing cool against your flushed skin, and he notices—of course he does—pulling back just enough to stare down at it with this possessive, lovesick glint in his eyes.
“fuck, that looks so good on you,” he murmurs, voice softer now but still rough around the edges, one hand coming up to thumb at the pendant where it rests against your throat. “my name right here while you’re all wrecked and leaking for me. you’re never taking this off, yeah? gonna wear it to class, to parties, when you’re sleeping—gonna think about how i made you squirt like a fucking fountain every time it catches the light.”
“you’re so—ahn!—possessive,” you manage, but it comes out breathy and fond, fingers sliding up into his damp hair to tug him back down for another kiss because you can’t help it, you need him close. he laughs against your lips, bright and stupid and yours, nipping at your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.
“damn right i am,” he says, grinding harder just to make you gasp, “fuck—satoru!” and feel another helpless twitch of your pussy against his jeans. “you’re mine. this pussy? mine. these tits? mine. this pretty little neck with my name on it? definitely fucking mine. been gone twelve days and i come back to you squirting on my face like a welcome home parade—i’m never leaving again, baby. gonna chain myself to this bed. or to your clit. whichever’s more convenient.”
you moan again, louder this time, head falling back against the pillows as he starts mouthing down your neck, sucking new bruises right next to the necklace like he wants to layer his claim. his hips are relentless now, dragging the rough seam of his jeans over your clit in slow, deliberate strokes that have your thighs shaking around him again already. “satoru—wait—i can’t—too soon.”
“too soon?” he echoes, pulling back to grin down at you, all teeth and menace and affection. “baby, we’re just getting started. you think one little facial means i’m done? nah. i’ve got two weeks of blue balls to work out. gonna make you come on my tongue again, then my fingers, then my cock—gonna keep you stuffed and shaking till you forget what day it is.”
he dips down to kiss the pendant one more time, soft and reverent, lips brushing your skin as he whispers, “love you in my name, princess. love you all messy and mine.”
your heart does something stupid and warm in your chest, and you yank him up by the hair to kiss him properly—deep and desperate and tasting like both of you now. “love you too, idiot,” you mumble against his mouth, legs tightening around his waist. “now get these jeans off before i actually die.”
he laughs into the kiss, bright and filthy and home. “yes ma’am. but fair warning—once this dick’s out, you’re not walking straight for a week.”
he doesn’t need to be told twice—hell, he was already halfway there the second the words left your mouth. his hands drop to his belt like it personally offended him, fumbling with the buckle in this frantic, desperate rush that’s so unlike his usual cocky grace, metal clinking loud in the quiet room as he yanks it open. “fuck—yes—finally,” he mutters under his breath, all breathless and wrecked, shoving his jeans and boxers down in one clumsy push until they pool around his knees. his cock springs free, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip already, curving up against his stomach like it’s been suffering without you for weeks (it has). it’s pretty in that obnoxious way his everything is—long, veiny, the head all slick and shiny with precum that drips down the shaft in a slow, teasing bead.
you stare, because how can you not, thighs still trembling from earlier, pussy clenching around nothing at the sight of him. he kicks the jeans off fully, nearly tripping in the process and catching himself on the bed with a dramatic little “whoa—shit,” that makes you snort even as heat pools low in your belly again. “don’t laugh at me,” he whines, crawling back over you fully naked now except for that clingy white shirt, “i’m suffering here. two weeks of hotel lotion and my own hand—do you know how tragic that is? i deserve a purple heart for surviving without this pussy.”
“poor baby,” you coo, mocking and soft all at once, reaching down to wrap your fingers around him because you can’t resist. he’s hot in your hand, velvet-smooth over steel, throbbing when you give him one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum. he groans loud and broken, “fuuuck, baby.” his hips jerking forward into your fist like he can’t help it, forehead dropping to yours as his eyes flutter shut.
“sensitive?” you tease, pumping him again, slower this time, watching his abs clench and his thighs tense where he’s kneeling between your legs. the necklace shifts against your chest with every breath, the little pink heart catching the light, and his eyes snap open to zero in on it immediately, pupils blown wide.
“you have no idea,” he rasps, voice cracking as you twist your wrist just right on the upstroke. “been hard pretty much since i landed. kept thinking about you in those tiny shorts, about bending you over your desk in the library, about this exact moment—fuck—tighter, baby, please—” he cuts off with another moan when you oblige, gripping him harder, feeling him pulse in your palm. “ahn—yeah, like that. . . god, your hand’s so much better than mine. everything about you is better. gonna ruin me again, aren’t you?”
“maybe,” you murmur, guiding him closer until the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, sliding through your folds in one slick glide that makes you both shudder. he’s leaking so much it mixes with your wetness, making everything messy and perfect, and you roll your hips up just to feel him drag over your clit. “mmph—satoru.” the friction sending sparks up your spine even though you’re still sensitive from earlier.
he whines, actual whines, high and needy in the back of his throat, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he tries to hold still. “don’t tease me,” he begs, voice all wrecked and dramatic, “i’ll literally die. i’ll combust. my dick will fall off from neglect—please, baby, let me in—need to feel you around me so bad—pleaseee.”
you take pity on him—on both of you—because you’re aching too, empty and fluttering and desperate for him to fill you up the way only he can. “okay,” you whisper, lining him up properly, the blunt head pressing right against your entrance, stretching you just from that. “slow, toru—fuck—”
he pushes in slow like you asked, but it’s torture for him—you can see it in the way his arms shake where they’re braced beside your head, in the way his jaw clenches and his breath stutters out in ragged pants. inch by inch he sinks into you, splitting you open on his cock, and you’re so wet from before that he slides in easy despite how thick he is, bottoming out with a low, drawn-out groan that vibrates through his chest into yours. “holy fuck—” he chokes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s overwhelmed. “so tight—still so fucking tight after all that—gonna kill me—ahn!”
you’re not much better, moaning high and broken, “satoru, oh god. . .” your nails digging into his shoulders as your walls flutter around him, adjusting to the stretch, the fullness that’s always just on the edge of too much with him. he stays still for a second, buried to the hilt, letting you both breathe, letting you feel every throb of his cock inside you, every twitch when you clench down on purpose just to hear him whimper.
“move,” you finally gasp, rolling your hips up to take him deeper even though he’s already all the way in, legs wrapping tight around his waist. “please—fuck me—need it—”
that’s all it takes. he pulls back slow, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, then snaps his hips forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs, “fuck—yes. . .” as he setting a rhythm that’s deep and punishing right from the start. the bed creaks under you, headboard tapping the wall in a steady thump-thump-thump that’s gonna get you noise complaints tomorrow, but neither of you care. he’s fucking you like he’s making up for lost time, like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you, cock dragging against your walls with every thrust, hitting that spot that makes your vision spark white.
“like that—” you sob, back arching, tits bouncing with every slam of his hips, the necklace swinging between you like a pendulum. “harder, satoru—pleaseee.”
“yeah?” he pants, grinning down at you all feral and beautiful, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, shirt clinging to his chest. “want it harder? my greedy little princess—missed this cock that much? been empty without me, huh?” he shifts his angle just right, grinding deep on every thrust now, the head of his cock kissing your cervix and making you see stars. “take it—fuck, take it all—gonna fill you up so good—”
you’re babbling now, incoherent moans and his name over and over, “satoru, satoru. fuck—don’t stop.” he have your toes curling, thighs shaking around him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly again already. he drops to his elbows, chest pressed to yours, mouth finding yours in a messy, desperate kiss, swallowing each other’s moans as he pounds into you relentlessly.
“love you,” he gasps against your lips, voice raw and soft underneath all the filth, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh and hitch your leg higher so he can go deeper. “love you so fucking much—never leaving again. gonna keep you full of me always—
mine.”
you cling to him, nails raking down his back under his shirt, the necklace warm between your bodies now, the little heart pressed right over your heartbeat like it belongs there. he’s ruining you, remaking you, loving you in the only way gojo satoru knows how—loud, messy, overwhelming, and so, so sweet.
he slows just enough to make you whine in protest, that deep, relentless rhythm faltering as he pulls his hips back a fraction, cock dragging slowly and teasing along your walls until you’re clenching around him desperately. “satoru, no—don’t you dare stop,” your voice all high and broken, nails scraping down his back under the damp cotton of his shirt.
he laughs, breathless and mean, blue eyes glittering with pure mischief as he sits back on his heels, still buried balls-deep inside you. “oh, baby,” he coos, voice syrupy sweet and filthy, “i’m not stopping. just rearranging you a little. gotta fold my favorite girl up like a lawn chair—wanna see how deep i can really get.”
before you can even process the words, his big hands are sliding down to the backs of your thighs, gripping tight, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave pretty little marks tomorrow. he pushes forward slow and deliberate, forcing your knees up toward your chest, your calves sliding over his shoulders until you’re bent damn near in half, ass lifted off the bed, pussy tilted up toward him like an offering. the stretch in your hamstrings burns in the best way, and the new angle has his cock sinking even deeper, the head nudging right up against your cervix on every tiny roll of his hips. you cry out sharp and wrecked, “fuck—satoru—too deep.” your back arching as far as it can in this position, tits bouncing with every thrust, the necklace swinging wildly between them, the little pink heart glinting like a filthy trophy.
“too deep?” he mocks, grinning down at you all sweaty and flushed and gorgeous, hair sticking to his forehead in white strands, shirt clinging transparently to his chest. “baby, you’re taking me so fucking well—look at you, folded up all pretty for me, pussy swallowing my cock like it’s starving. you feel that?” he pulls out slowly just to slam back in, hard enough that your whole body jolts up the bed.
“ahn, yes, fuck,” and he groans loud and dramatic, head tipping back. “that’s me all the way in your guts. gonna rearrange your organs, princess. gonna make sure you feel me for days every time you sit down in lecture.”
he fucks you like that for what feels like forever, deep and grinding and punishing, hips snapping forward in short, brutal thrusts that have you seeing stars, your thighs trembling against his chest, toes curling in the air. every drag of his cock lights up every nerve inside you, the pressure building again so fast it’s dizzying, and you’re babbling nonsense, “satoru, please, i’m gonna, fuckkkk, again.”
your tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it is. he’s moaning right along with you, filthy and unrestrained, “yeah, fuck! squeeze me just like that, my perfect little slut,” until suddenly he stops, buried to the hilt, pulsing inside you.
you whine loud and betrayed, “no, no, why,” as you are trying to rock your hips up for more friction, but he holds you pinned, chuckling dark and breathless. “easy, greedy girl,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss you messy and slow, tongue licking into your mouth while he’s still throbbing inside you. “not done with you yet. wanna fuck you from behind—wanna watch that pretty ass bounce while my name swings between your tits.”
before you can even catch your breath, he’s pulling out—slow and torturous, making you feel every inch leaving you empty and clenching around nothing—and sliding off the bed. he stands beside it, tall and naked and stupidly gorgeous, cock slick with you and jutting up against his stomach, and reaches down to grab your ankles. “c’mere,” he says, voice rough with want, tugging you toward the edge of the mattress until your legs are dangling off, feet barely brushing the floor. you’re still folded and shaky, but he manhandles you like you weigh nothing, flipping you over onto your stomach and then pulling your hips up until you’re standing bent over the bed, chest pressed flat to the rumpled sheets, ass in the air.
“fuck, look at you,” he groans, hands spreading your cheeks apart so he can see everything—your dripping pussy, swollen and gaping a little from how hard he just fucked you, slick running down your thighs in shiny trails. he steps up behind you, one hand splayed between your shoulder blades to push you down harder into the mattress, the other guiding his cock through your folds, slapping it heavy and wet against your clit once, twice, three times until you’re jolting forward with every hit. “satoru, please, stop teasing,” your voice muffled into the sheets.
“teasing?” he laughs, all mean and delighted, slapping your pussy again with the length of his cock, the wet smack echoing loud in the room. “baby, this is foreplay. gotta make sure my favorite hole is ready for round two—look how fucking wet you are, dripping all over my dick like a desperate little mess.” he lines up finally, the fat head pressing against your entrance, and then he pushes, one long, forceful thrust that buries him to the hilt in a single stroke, forcing the air out of your lungs in a broken scream, “fuckkkk.”
he doesn’t ease up, doesn’t give you time to adjust—just grips your hips bruisingly tight and starts pounding into you like he’s trying to fuse you together, skin slapping against skin loud and obscene, the bed creaking dangerously under the force. your hands scrabble for something to hold onto, fingers twisting in the sheets as he fucks you hard and deep, every thrust shoving you up the mattress until he yanks you back by the hips. “take it, fuck, take every inch,” he growls, voice wrecked, leaning over you to mouth at the back of your neck, teeth scraping the chain of the necklace. “love this pussy—love how you feel around me—love how you look bent over and stuffed full of my cock, mine!”
you’re moaning into the sheets, high and nonstop, “yes—yours, fuck, harder.” again, non-stop, he have your toes curling against the fuzzy rug, body rocking forward with every brutal snap of his hips. the necklace swings beneath you with every thrust, the little heart brushing the mattress, a constant reminder of who’s ruining you so perfectly, and you can feel another orgasm building fast and overwhelming, coiling tight in your belly as he hits that spot inside you over and over and over.
“that’s it,” he pants, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, pulling your head back gently so he can hear you better, “moan louder, baby—let the whole dorm know who’s making you dumb on this dick—let them hear my name around your pretty neck while i fuck you stupid—”
you’re lost in it, in him, in the way he owns every inch of you without apology, loving you loud and messy and filthy and sweet all at once.
he doesn’t let up for even a second, hips snapping forward with this brutal, steady rhythm that has your whole body jolting against the mattress, cheek pressed into the rumpled sheets that smell like vanilla and sex and him. every thrust shoves you forward an inch, tits dragging across the comforter, nipples hard and aching from the friction, and he just yanks you back by the hips like you’re his personal fucktoy, fingers bruising your skin in the shape of his grip.
the angle is devastating—his cock slamming into you from behind, deeper than before, the head grinding against that spot inside that makes your eyes cross and your mouth fall open in a constant stream of broken moans, “fuck, satoru, right there—don’t stop, oh god. . ” your voice muffled and hoarse, echoing off the walls along with the wet, obscene slap of his hips against your ass.
“listen to that,” he groans, all breathless and wrecked, slowing down just enough to pull almost all the way out before slamming back in, making you scream into the sheets “ahn—fuck!” and he laughs, low and filthy, one hand leaving your hip to reach forward and flick the dangling necklace where it swings beneath you. the little pink heart bounces with every thrust, catching the fairy lights in tiny flashes, and he’s obsessed with it, you can tell. “hear how wet you are for me? that’s two weeks of missing this dick talking, baby. pussy’s so sloppy she’s crying all over my cock—fuck, gonna ruin this pretty little hole till you can’t walk to class tomorrow.”
you try to push back against him, desperate for more, ass jiggling with every impact, but he pins you down harder, palm flat between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest deeper into the bed while your back arches perfectly for him. “stay right there,” he growls, voice rough with possession, leaning over you so his shirt brushes your sweat-slick skin, his breath hot against your ear. “love seeing you like this—bent over, stuffed full, my name swinging under you like a fucking claim tag. everyone’s gonna know tomorrow when you’re limping around campus wearing that necklace. gonna look at you and think ‘yeah, gojo wrecked that.’”
“satoru—please. . .” you sob, fingers clawing at the sheets, knuckles white as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, your pussy fluttering around him in warning. he feels it—of course he does—and his rhythm stutters for a second before he doubles down, fucking you harder, faster, the bed frame groaning in protest like it’s about to collapse under the force. his free hand snakes around your hip, fingers finding your clit swollen and slick, rubbing messy circles that have your thighs shaking uncontrollably, “yes, fuck, right there, i’m gonna come. . .”
“yeah? gonna come all over my cock again?” he taunts, voice dripping with mean affection, pinching your clit lightly just to hear you yelp, “satoru!” before soothing it with quick, relentless strokes. “do it, baby. . . milk me, wanna feel this pussy squeeze me while i fill you up, gonna pump you so full you’ll be leakin’ me all week. fuckkk, look at you, taking it so good. my perfect little slut. . .”
the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you so hard your vision blacks out at the edges, whole body locking up as you scream his name into the mattress, “satoru, fuck. i’m coming, cominggg. . .”
your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses, gushing around his cock in hot, messy spurts that soak his balls and drip down your thighs. he groans loud and broken behind you, “fuuuck, yes, squeeze me just like that.”
hips stuttering as he tries to fuck you through it, drawing out every last tremor until you’re whimpering oversensitive and boneless beneath him.
he doesn’t stop though—not yet—just slows to these deep, grinding rolls of his hips, letting you feel every inch buried inside your spasming walls, his fingers still lazily circling your clit to keep you teetering on that edge. “one more,” he murmurs against the back of your neck, kissing the sweat there, tongue darting out to taste your skin. “gimme one more, princess—wanna feel you fall apart again while i breed this pretty pussy—wanna watch my cum drip out of you with my name around your neck, fuck. . . you’re so perfect when you come for me—”
you’re already shaking your head weakly, overstimulation making tears prick at your eyes, but your hips are pushing back against him anyway, greedy and desperate even when you’re wrecked. “can’t—satoru, too much,” you gasp, voice cracked and raw, but he just chuckles dark and sweet, nipping at your shoulder.
“you can,” he coos, all soft menace, pulling out slow just to watch you clench around nothing before sliding back in with a filthy wet sound. “you will. for me. because you’re mine. my good girl, my favorite—gonna keep you full and shaking till you forget how to say anything but my name,”
he straightens up again, both hands gripping your hips now, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust like he’s using you to chase his own release, the pace turning brutal and unrelenting. your moans turn into these high, broken sobs, “please. . . fuck, satoru, again.” the pleasure-pain building impossibly higher, your body no longer your own, just his to take and ruin and love however he wants.
and god, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
he doesn’t give you even a breath to recover, just keeps that punishing pace like he’s trying to fuck the memory of every lonely night you spent without him right out of your body, hips slamming into your ass so hard the impact ripples up your spine and makes your tits bounce against the mattress. you’re so overstimulated it hurts in the sweetest way, every nerve lit up and screaming, your clit throbbing from his fingers, your pussy fluttering wildly around his cock like it can’t decide if it wants to pull him deeper or push him out. tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes now, soaking the sheets beneath your cheek. “satoru, fuck! i can’t, too much, gonna break—” but your body betrays you completely, hips pushing back to meet every brutal thrust, greedy and desperate even when you’re falling apart.
“break?” he laughs, breathless and mean and so fucking fond, leaning down to drape himself over your back, chest heaving against your spine, one arm hooking under your waist to hold you tight while the other keeps rubbing your clit in those quick, filthy circles that make your vision spark white. “baby, you’re not gonna break—you’re gonna come again for me, gonna squeeze my dick so hard i see stars, gonna milk every drop out of me like the perfect little cockslut you are—” his voice cracks on the last word because you clench down involuntarily at the praise, and he groans loud and wrecked right in your ear, “fuuuck—there it is,do that again. . .”
you sob, high and broken, “satoru—i’m—oh god, again.”
and the second orgasm barrels into you without mercy, harder than the first, ripping through your oversensitive body like lightning. your pussy clamps down on him in violent pulses, gushing around his cock again, hot and messy, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you as you shake apart under him. “coming—fuck, satoru—coming so hard. . .” your voice is shredded, muffled into the mattress, whole body locking up and trembling uncontrollably, toes curling so hard they cramp, the necklace swinging wildly beneath you as your back arches off the bed.
he swears viciously, “shit—baby, fuck yes.”
feeling you squeeze him like a vice, and that’s what finally does it, what finally pushes him over the edge he’s been teetering on since he first sank into you. his rhythm stutters, hips jerking erratically as he buries himself as deep as he can go, cock pulsing hot and thick inside you.
“gonna come, fuck, take it, take all of it!” he groans, long and filthy, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as he empties himself in heavy, endless spurts, filling you up exactly like he promised. you can feel every throb, every hot jet painting your walls, and it drags your orgasm out longer, makes you whimper pathetically as he grinds deep, riding it out with these sloppy, desperate thrusts that smear his cum and yours together.
he collapses over you finally, both of you panting like you’ve run a marathon, his weight heavy and comforting, cock still twitching inside you as the aftershocks ripple through you both. “holy… shit…” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and wrecked, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your sweaty skin. “you just… drained me. i’m dead. deceased. write ‘death by perfect pussy’ on my tombstone.”
you laugh, weak and shaky, clenching around him just to hear him hiss and feel him jerk inside you. “you’re* the one who wouldn’t stop,” you mumble, turning your head to nuzzle at his cheek, the necklace cool against your flushed chest now. “i told you i was sensitive, you animal.”
“sensitive?” he echoes, grinning against your shoulder, nipping the skin there before soothing it with his tongue. “baby, you came twice in ten minutes—i’m calling that a talent. an olympic sport. gold medal in cock destruction.” he shifts a little, still buried inside you, and you both groan softly at the movement, oversensitive and raw. “fuck, i’m gonna be leaking out of you for days. gonna feel me every time you sit down, every time you walk to class—gonna think about how full i kept you and get all needy again, huh?”
you whine, reaching back to smack weakly at his thigh. “shut up, toru—i’m literally dying.”
“dying happy,” he corrects, all soft and smug, finally pulling out slow and careful, making you both shudder at the drag and the sudden emptiness. he watches with way too much fascination as his cum immediately starts dripping out of you, thick and white, sliding down your thighs in slow rivulets. “fuck, that’s hot. look at that—my favorite creampie. should take a picture. commemorative.”
“don’t you dare,” you mumble, but there’s no heat in it, just fond exhaustion as you collapse fully onto the bed, limbs jelly, heart racing. he flops down beside you immediately, tugging you into his arms like you’re his personal body pillow, legs tangling with yours, face buried in your neck where the necklace rests against his cheek.
“never,” he promises, voice muffled against your skin, pressing a soft kiss right over the little pink heart. “this view’s all mine anyway.” his arms tighten around you, possessive and tender all at once, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “missed you so fucking much. don’t let me leave again, okay? chain me to the bed. or to your pussy. i’m flexible.”
you laugh into his chest, fingers sliding up to play with the damp hair at his nape. “deal. but you’re cleaning the sheets tomorrow, you menace.”
“worth it,” he murmurs, nuzzling closer, voice going soft and sleepy. “so fucking worth it.”
you’re melted against him like warm wax, the kind that’s been poured and left to set in the shape of his body—naked skin on naked skin, the thin sheet barely covering your hip because neither of you can be bothered to pull it higher. his shirt is long gone, flung somewhere near the door with the dramatic flair of a man who declared it “too restrictive for post-nut clarity,” and your tank top followed shortly after, peeled off between lazy kisses and his whining about how it was “blocking the view of his favorite necklace.” the room is quiet except for the soft whir of the fan and the occasional creak of the bed when one of you shifts, fairy lights still glowing like a cheesy rom-com filter over your tangled limbs. your cheek is pressed to his chest, ear over the steady thump-thump of his heart, one of his arms slung heavy around your waist while the other traces random shapes on your bare back. your eyes are closed, body humming with that deep, syrupy exhaustion that only comes after he’s fucked you absolutely senseless.
then he opens his mouth and ruins the peace, because of course he does.
“you ever think,” he murmurs, voice low and sleepy-rough, “that maybe we’re soulmates? like, in every universe i’m out there annoying the shit out of you and you’re putting up with me anyway? because i refuse to believe anyone else would let me live after the things i just did to your pussy.”
you snort so hard it shakes both of you, eyes cracking open to squint up at him. “soulmates? really? that’s the line you’re going with after folding me like a lawn chair and coming inside me twice?”
he grins down at you, all soft and dopey, blue eyes crinkling at the corners, and leans in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead—gentle, reverent, the kind of kiss that doesn’t belong on the same mouth that was just saying the filthiest shit imaginable ten minutes ago. “what can i say,” he whispers against your skin, “i’m a romantic.”
and there it is again—that memory slamming into you like a truck. his voice raw and desperate in the middle of everything, gasping love you, love you so fucking much like it was ripped out of him, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore. he’s never said it before. not in the almost two years you’ve known him—first as the annoying white-haired idiot in your intro psych class who kept stealing your pens and drawing dicks on your notes, then as your actual friend who dragged you into every dumb adventure imaginable, then as the friend you started hooking up with because the tension was unbearable and the sex was insane.
it started innocent enough—late-night study sessions turning into late-night makeouts, one drunk confession that you both wanted more but were too scared to ruin the friendship, so friends-with-benefits it was. safe. casual. except it stopped feeling casual for you months ago, and you’ve been starving for the real thing ever since, hoarding every soft look and lingering touch like a dragon with gold, too terrified to ask for more.
but he said it. love you. and now he’s kissing your forehead like you’re precious and you’re spiraling.
you swallow, heart suddenly racing again. “toru,” you start, voice small, lifting your head to look at him properly.
“hm?” he hums, thumb brushing your cheek, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear with that gentle focus he saves just for you.
“earlier,” you say, hesitating, fingers fidgeting against his chest where the necklace rests warm against your skin. “when you said… you know. that you love me. what did you mean?”
he blinks, eyebrows shooting up like you just asked if the sky is blue. “what do i mean?” he echoes, tilting his head, fingers still stroking your hair. “baby, i meant i love you. like, duh.”
you stare at him for a second, brain buffering. “but… you’ve never said that before. we’re—we’re just—” you gesture vaguely between your naked bodies, “—this. fucking. hanging out. eating bad ramen at 3 a.m. you don’t… you don’t do the love thing, toru. is it because you missed me? or were you just… overheating at the moment?”
he laughs softly, but it’s not mocking—it’s warm, a little sheepish, and he shifts to prop himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly, the sheet slipping down to his waist. “overheating? princess, my dick was literally inside you, everything was overheating. but no, that’s not why.” he pauses, biting his lip like he’s trying to figure out how to say it without sounding like a total sap, then sighs.
“look, yeah, i jerked off to your nudes every single day i was gone—don’t look at me like that, you sent them, you knew what you were doing—but it wasn’t just that. i missed you. the whole annoying, perfect package. missed stealing your hoodies and watching you pretend you’re mad about it. missed dragging you to vending machine runs at midnight. missed hugging you when you’re stressed about exams, kissing you when you’re not expecting it, falling asleep with you snoring on my chest like a tiny chainsaw.”
“i do not snore,” you mutter, but it’s weak because your heart is doing cartwheels.
“you do, it’s cute,” he says immediately, grinning, then sobers a little. “point is… i suggested friends-with-benefits in the first place because i was already stupidly in love with you and too much of a coward to say it straight. thought if i could just… be close to you, even if it was just sex at first, maybe you’d catch feelings too. or i’d eventually man up and tell you. turns out getting you off three times is what finally did it.”
you’re staring at him, mouth slightly open, because what the fuck. gojo satoru—campus legend, walking wet dream, rich pretty boy who plays guitar like it’s nothing and has half the school drooling over him, the guy whose dick is apparently a religious experience according to every girl he’s ever slept with (rumors you tried very hard not to hear)—has been in love with you this whole time? the guy who could snap his fingers and have anyone, who’s smart and athletic and funny and tall and built like a god and fucks like one too, has been pining like a lovesick idiot?
“you’re serious,” you whisper, searching his face for any hint of a joke. “you… love me. like actually love me. not just because i let you rail me into the mattress.”
he snorts, but his ears are pink, and he reaches up to flick your forehead gently. “yes, dummy. i love you. have for ages. you’re my favorite person to annoy, to kiss, to fuck, to just… be around. i meant it earlier. mean it now. not just because your pussy is a national treasure—though it is, five stars, highly recommend—but because it’s you.”
you swallow hard, the necklace suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, the little pink heart warms against your skin. “you really mean it?”
he softens completely, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “i really mean it,” he says, voice low and serious, eyes locked on yours. “love you. for real. no take-backs. no overheating. just you.”
you surge forward and kiss him—hard, desperate, pouring every unspoken thing into it, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole life, arms wrapping tight around you, pulling you on top of him like he never wants to let go.
when you finally pull apart, breathless and grinning like idiots, he rests his forehead against yours. “so… girlfriend?” he asks, voice teasing but hopeful, fingers tracing the chain around your neck. “or do i have to beg? i’ll beg. i’ll get on my knees again. third time’s the charm.”
you laugh, watery and happy, and kiss him once more, soft and sweet. “yeah, toru. girlfriend.”
he whoops loud enough to wake the whole dorm, rolling you both over so he’s on top, peppering your face with kisses. “fuck yes. best day ever. now cuddle me before i combust from feelings. too many. system overload.”
you roll your eyes but wrap your arms around him anyway, the little pink heart pressed warm between you both, and everything finally, finally feels right.
Summary: Clark started noticing that you were growing older faster than he was. He has to come to terms with it, no matter how painful.
tags: angst, growing old, clark being in grief because he will outlive you, major character death
Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting your bedroom in hues of gold. Clark stirred awake before you, as he often did, his instincts attuned to the world long before the rest of the house woke up. For a while, he just lay there—watching you breathe, listening to the faint rhythm of your heartbeat beside him.
It was one of his favorite things in the world.
Your hair was splayed across the pillow, catching the sunlight. He reached out to gently brush a lock away from your face, smiling to himself. But then he paused.
There, glinting silver among the strands, was something that made his chest tighten. A delicate gray hair.
It was so small, so ordinary, and yet for him, it felt monumental.
He froze, fingers hovering in midair. The smile faded, replaced by something uncertain and heavy.
You stirred at his touch, blinking drowsily. “Clark?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
He blinked rapidly, quickly forcing a soft smile. “Hey,” he whispered, his hand finding yours. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
You smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “You’re always awake first,” you teased, squeezing his hand before turning on your side. “You should try sleeping in for once.”
Clark chuckled quietly, but the sound felt distant to him. He leaned forward and kissed your temple, lingering there longer than usual. You didn’t notice, already half-drifting again, but he did. He noticed everything.
Because in that quiet moment, a thought took root in his mind and refused to leave.
You were getting older. Slowly, beautifully, naturally. Time was leaving traces on your skin and in your hair—and he wasn’t changing the same way. His reflection had looked the same for years now. The fine lines that came and went with stress disappeared almost overnight. Even the gray that sometimes threatened his temples would fade within a week.
You, on the other hand, were fully human. And though he loved that. He loved every second of your life’s rhythm…it terrified him too.
He lay there for a long time, tracing his thumb over your knuckles, listening to the sound of life outside the bedroom. Somewhere down the hall, Leia was laughing with Jon over breakfast. She was seventeen now—sharp, confident, witty like her mother. Jon, thirteen, had inherited his father’s restless curiosity and his mother’s stubborn heart. They filled the house with noise and chaos and light.
And one day, Clark realized with a pang, they would be grown. They would have their own lives. And he… he might still look the same. Still be the same.
But you wouldn’t.
He swallowed hard and blinked back the stinging in his eyes.
When you finally sat up and stretched, noticing the way he was watching you, you gave him that soft, familiar look—the one that always made him feel seen. “What’s wrong?” you asked.
He hesitated, then shook his head with a small, practiced smile. “Nothing,” he said, though his voice betrayed him.
You studied him for a moment, frowning slightly. “Clark…”
He sighed, defeated. His fingers brushed the side of your hair again, and this time, he couldn’t hide the tenderness in the motion. “I saw a gray hair,” he said quietly.
You blinked, then laughed softly. “Oh, that? Yeah, I found one last week.” You smiled, amused at his reaction. “It’s just one, Clark. Or a few, maybe. Comes with the territory.”
But he didn’t laugh with you. He just looked at you, eyes full of something far deeper than worry. “I know,” he murmured. “It’s just… sometimes I forget that time doesn’t move the same for me. And then I see something like that, and it hits me all at once.”
You softened instantly.
He looked down, his voice quieter now. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” he admitted. “And I don’t know how to… how to face that I might, one day, have to.”
You reached out, taking his face in your hands. “Clark,” you whispered, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. “You can’t think like that. You’re not losing me. Not now. Not for a long time.”
His eyes glistened. “But someday…”
“Someday doesn’t matter right now,” you interrupted gently. “You can’t live in that fear. We have today. We have Leia, and Jon, and every morning that starts with you beside me.”
He closed his eyes, breathing you in. Your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life beneath your skin. He nodded slowly, because you were right. You always were.
Later that morning, after you’d gone to make coffee, Clark stood by the window and watched the sunlight dance across the kitchen where Leia was helping Jon with cereal. Their laughter echoed through the house, bright and alive.
He looked at you, with your hair pulled into a loose bun, a silver thread or two catching the light.
You were aging. He wasn’t.
-
One night, after you’d fallen asleep, he sat in the living room in the dark, his hands clasped together so tightly they trembled. The house was still, save for the gentle hum of your breathing down the hall.
And then, softly, like a man afraid of being overheard by the universe, he began to pray.
“Please,” he whispered into the quiet. “If there’s anyone listening… if there’s anything left in me that’s still human enough to be heard…please.”
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the tears slipping through his fingers. “Don’t make me live without her. Don’t let me watch her fade while I stay the same.”
Clark’s voice broke, raw and pleading. “I don’t need to fly. I don’t need to be strong or invincible. I’d trade it all, every ounce of power, for one lifetime with her. Just one. Growing old together, the way people are supposed to.”
He bowed his head, the weight of years pressing down on him. He thought about how your hair had begun to curl differently now, how your hands bore faint traces of time, how your eyes—still bright, still fierce—carried more softness when you looked at him these days.
He remembered the first time he’d seen you, young and full of laughter. How you’d teased him, how you’d made him feel human even when the rest of the world insisted he wasn’t.
And now, as he sat in the quiet of your shared life, the thought of you slipping away while he stayed the same tore something deep inside him.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was small. “Let me be like her. Let me age. Let me feel it all. The aches, the years, the growing old. Let me earn every second with her.”
You had stirred at some point, perhaps sensing that the bed was empty. Quietly, you padded into the living room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The moment you saw him—his face buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling—you knew.
“Clark? Honey?” you whispered gently.
He startled slightly, wiping his eyes quickly, but you’d already seen the tears. You crossed the room, kneeling before him, taking his hands away from his face.
“What’s wrong?” you asked softly.
He shook his head, the words caught in his throat. “It’s nothing, I just—”
“Don’t,” you said. “Don’t lie to me.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, your eyes searching his, your thumb brushing the dampness from his cheek. Finally, he broke. “You’re changing,” he said quietly. “And I’m not. And I hate it.”
You blinked, caught off guard, but before you could speak, he continued, his voice trembling. “Every time I see another year touch you, it’s beautiful…and it hurts. Because I know I’ll stay the same while you…” He swallowed hard. “While you keep moving forward.”
You cupped his face gently. “Clark,” you murmured, your voice full of tenderness. “That’s what love is supposed to be. Moving forward together, even if the steps don’t always look the same.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the quiet desperation.
“I don’t want to outlive you,” he whispered. “I don’t want to be here without you.”
You kissed his forehead, your lips lingering there. “Then don’t think about how much time we have,” you said softly. “Think about what we do with it.”
Clark’s eyes opened then, glassy but full of devotion.
You smiled through your own tears and added, “Besides… when I grow old and gray, you’ll still be the same man who makes me feel like I’m the luckiest woman on Earth. That won’t change.”
He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he pulled you close instead, burying his face in your shoulder. You held him there, your fingers threading through his dark hair as the quiet night settled around you.
Outside, the stars burned bright and ageless, but inside the Kent home, there was something far more enduring.
A man who could live forever, praying only for the chance to grow old.
-
The years had passed quietly. They crept in with gentle familiarity, one silver strand at a time, one softened line, one slower morning. You were well into your later years now. The house had grown quieter, still full of love, but slower somehow, softer. Leia and Jon had their own lives, their own homes, yet they visited often. The laughter still echoed in these walls, but it came from the memories now as much as the moments themselves.
You moved more carefully these days. Your hands trembled slightly when you held your tea. Clark never let you carry anything heavier than a plate. He still looked almost the same—the same strong lines of his jaw, the same impossibly bright eyes. Maybe a touch more silver at his temples, but it suited him in that effortless way everything did.
Sometimes, when the two of you went out, to the farmer’s market, or to the park to feed the birds, strangers would smile kindly and say, “How lovely that you brought your mother out today.”
You always laughed it off. Clark, though, would just smile politely and squeeze your hand, his eyes soft and aching.
You and Clark sat together in the home you had built, still the same place where Leia had taken her first steps, where Jon had learned to fly for the first time (through a window that had long since been replaced). The walls carried laughter in their beams and love in every scratch, every photograph framed on the shelves.
The evening sun poured through the window, painting you both in honeyed light. Clark sat beside you on the couch, reading a book with one arm around your shoulders. His hair was still thick and dark, his face still the same boyish handsomeness it had always been. There were barely any changes, perhaps a softness in his eyes that came only with time, but not a single line that betrayed the years.
You, however, had changed.
Your hair, long streaked with silver, was gathered loosely at your neck. Your hands bore the quiet story of years lived fully, creased, delicate, and a little unsteady. There were days when the aches in your body slowed you down, when Clark had to help you out of bed or hold your arm as you walked down the porch steps.
You hated needing help. You hated feeling small when once you had been strong.
But Clark never seemed to see you that way.
He treated you with the same care he had when you were young, the same reverence, the same awe, as though every wrinkle and every gray hair was a miracle he was lucky to witness.
Still, that didn’t stop the doubt from creeping in.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the man who hadn’t changed much since your youth. The same broad shoulders, the same earnest face.
When he caught your gaze, he smiled. “What’s that look for?”
You hesitated before answering, voice soft but trembling. “Do you still love me?”
His smile faded, replaced by quiet concern. “What kind of question is that?”
You looked down at your hands. “I mean… really love me. Even though I’m…” You gestured to yourself vaguely. “Old. Slower. I can’t keep up like I used to. You’re still… you. Still strong, still young. Sometimes I look at us, and I think…what do you even see in me anymore?”
Clark set the book aside and came to sit beside you. He reached for your hands, holding them carefully, as though they were made of glass.
“I see you,” he said softly.
You shook your head, tears forming. “Clark—”
“No,” he interrupted gently. “You listen to me. I see the woman who taught me how to live in this world. The woman who showed me that being human isn’t about what you can lift, or how fast you heal, or how long you live. It’s about love. It’s about what you give to others.”
His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, tracing the faint blue veins beneath your skin. “You gave me everything, sweetheart. You gave me Leia and Jon. You gave me a home. You gave me laughter, and warmth, and a reason to come back every night.”
Tears slipped silently down your cheeks. “But I can’t even do much anymore. You’re always taking care of me now. I feel so… useless.”
He smiled sadly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. “You could never be useless to me. Do you know what it means to take care of you? It means I get to repay even a fraction of what you’ve done for me. All those years you worried over me, patched me up, waited for me to come home in one piece…you think I ever forgot that?”
You let out a shaky laugh, still crying. “I just don’t want to be a burden, Clark.”
He shook his head. “You’re not. You’re my heart. You always have been.”
You sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind outside, the creak of the old house. His arm came around your shoulders again, pulling you close.
“Do you remember,” he whispered after a moment, “when we were young, and you told me that even if we could never have kids, we’d still be a family? Just the two of us?”
You nodded faintly.
“Well,” he said, voice full of quiet emotion, “now it’s come full circle. The kids are grown, living their own lives. And it’s just the two of us again. Still a family. Still us.”
You smiled through your tears, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, the same rhythm you had known for decades.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, “You’re everything to me, gray hairs and all. You’ve given me a life I could never have imagined. You’re still my miracle.”
You smiled softly, eyes closing as warmth filled your chest. You realized that time hadn’t stolen anything from you. It had only deepened what you already had—love that was stronger than youth, truer than beauty, and far greater than time itself.
Clark held you tighter, and you could feel him smile against your hair.
“Always,” he murmured. “I’ll always love you.”
-
Clark had always thought he understood time.
He could fly faster than it, move through it in the blink of an eye, but time—real time, the kind that wears away at the edges of a person’s soul—was something he could never escape. It always caught up, not to him, but to the ones he loved.
He saw it first in you.
When you both were young, he never thought much about how it would look one day—how your hair would silver while his stayed dark, how the laugh lines at your eyes would deepen while his reflection stayed frozen, unchanged. You used to tease him about it. He used to laugh. But now, when you reached for him at night, your hand a little frailer, your breath a little slower, he realized that time had drawn a line between your worlds.
He watched you live in full color. Each year marked with growth, change, wisdom…and he, forever the same, remained a witness.
Leia grew up in that same light. His little girl, the one who once slept curled against his chest, was now a woman—a brilliant, graceful woman who had inherited his eyes and your warmth. He still remembered how she used to reach for him with her tiny hands and call him “Daddy.”
Now Leia came to visit with streaks of gray in her hair and a laugh so much like yours that it ached.
And Jon…still the same mischievous smile, still the same spark. But even Jon had changed, grown older. His shoulders ached after long flights, his powers waned in small, barely noticeable ways.
One evening, Clark stood by the window of your home, the golden light fading into a soft indigo dusk. You were sitting in your favorite chair, a blanket over your legs, reading a worn book. Leia sat across from you, her hair tied up, glasses perched on her nose as she helped you with something on your tablet. The resemblance between you two struck him. Not in the way people always said, “She looks just like her mother,” but in the way she moved, the gentle patience in her gestures, the small hum she made when she was thinking.
And then it hit him. Leia, too, was aging. Slowly, naturally. Like you.
It was something he had always wondered about in silence. Whether his children would inherit his longevity or your humanity. He had always told himself it didn’t matter. But now, seeing the faint silver threading through Leia’s hair, it crushed him in a way he hadn’t expected.
Because one day, one day soon, by his measure, he would be the only one left unchanged.
He pressed his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes, trying to steady the ache in his chest. For all his strength, for all his power, there was nothing he could do to slow this kind of loss.
He had imagined, long ago, that maybe he would outlive the world itself. But now, he didn’t want that. He didn’t want eternity. He wanted this—the wrinkles on your hands, the laughter that grew richer with age, the quiet mornings when you’d wake up beside him and mumble that the coffee was too strong.
He wanted to grow old with you.
He would have given up his strength, his powers, his flight, his entire Kryptonian legacy, just to sit beside you as equals, gray and human, both fading together.
That night, after Leia left, he carried you to bed. You were half-asleep, murmuring something soft and familiar, and as he tucked the blanket around you, he found himself whispering,
“I wish I could slow down with you.”
You stirred, eyes half-open. “Hmm?”
He smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of white hair from your face. “Nothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”
But he couldn’t. He lay awake for hours, listening to your breathing, memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat.
He would sit sometimes on the porch, long after you had gone to bed, looking out at the stars he once flew among. He used to feel at home up there. Now, home was wherever you were.
-
One night, as he brushed your hair before bed, an old habit he’d never let go of, you looked up at him in the mirror and asked quietly, “Are you ever tired of taking care of an old lady like me?”
He froze mid-motion, his reflection meeting yours. “What?”
You smiled, faint and teasing. “Be honest, Clark. You could be out there doing anything, seeing the world, saving it, living. And here you are, tying my robe and making sure I take my pills. Don’t you ever get tired?”
He set the brush down, stepping closer. “No,” he said simply. His voice was steady, sure. “Never.”
You turned slightly, looking up at him. “Not even when people mistake me for your mother?” you asked softly.
His lips curved in a sad smile. “Every time that happens,” he said, his hand finding yours, “I just think…if they only knew.”
He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If they only knew how much I love you. How lucky I am to have you. How every day I wake up and thank whatever force in this universe let me find you.”
Your eyes shimmered as you looked at him, still as impossibly gentle as he’d been the day you met.
“Clark…” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “You’ve loved me through everything. Through years and years. You’ve held me together even when I felt like I was fading. You never once made me feel like I was a burden.”
He cupped your face in his large, warm hands. “You’re not a burden,” he said softly. “You’re my everything.”
You smiled faintly, leaning into his palm. “You know,” you said, your voice fragile but calm, “I’ve loved you all my life. Every version of you. The farm boy, the reporter, the man who could catch the world if it fell. I loved you as a boy, a teen, a man who became the symbol of hope. I watched you become a dad.”
He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
“I don’t know how much time I have left,” you continued. “But I can tell you this, Clark Kent. Loving you… that’s a life worth living.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. He pulled you close, holding you so gently as though afraid you might break, but you didn’t—you just melted against him, your head resting against his chest, listening to that steady heartbeat that had never changed.
Outside, the world carried on, but inside, everything was still.
You closed your eyes and smiled. “You’ll be all right, you know,” you murmured. “When I’m gone. You’ll have the kids, and you’ll have the stars.”
Clark’s voice was low and shaking when he whispered, “None of it means anything without you.”
You looked up, tracing his jaw with your trembling fingers. “Then make it mean something for both of us,” you said softly. “Live for both of us.”
He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.
When you finally drifted to sleep against him that night, he stayed awake for hours, just listening to you breathe, memorizing every sound, every small movement, because for Clark, every moment spent with you was a prayer answered.
He never got tired.
Not of you.
Not even for a second.
-
A few years later, the house that had been your home was quiet that night.
Not silent—the kind of quiet that feels alive, that hums softly with the rhythm of breathing and memory. The rain outside tapped gently on the windows, a calm, slow cadence that seemed almost deliberate.
You were in bed, the blankets pulled to your chin, your hand resting in Clark’s much larger one. Leia sat by your other side, fingers curled around your wrist, while Jon knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed. The lamplight was dim, golden and kind, painting the room in a soft glow that made everything look almost eternal.
You had grown frail, your breaths shallower now. But there was still a faint smile on your lips—the same one Clark had fallen in love with decades ago.
He had known this day was coming. He had told himself he was ready, had rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times. But now that it was here, he wasn’t ready at all.
“Clark.”
When your chest stilled, he didn’t move. Neither did Leia or Jon. The air felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Clark bent forward, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered your name like a prayer. “I’m right here, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’m right here.”
Leia reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady. “She knew, Dad. You were always right here.”
Jon swallowed hard, his throat tight, eyes glassy. “Mom’s… gone.”
Leia nodded softly. “Yeah.”
Clark didn’t answer. He sat there for a long time, still holding your hand, tracing the lines of your palm as if he could memorize them once more, as if his touch alone could tether you back.
Hours later, when the rain had stopped and the night grew still, the three of them sat together in the living room. Leia leaned her head against Clark’s shoulder, while Jon sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into the quiet fireplace.
It was Jon who broke the silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I read somewhere that when a person dies, their brain keeps working for about seven minutes. Like… it replays their life. Their memories. Everything they loved.”
Clark looked down at his son, his expression distant but tender. “I’ve heard that too.”
Leia shifted, looking up at her father. “Seven minutes,” she repeated quietly, almost to herself. “That’s not very long.”
Jon shrugged, rubbing at his eyes. “I just hope… I hope I was in some of those minutes.”
Leia turned to look at her little brother, her lips parting in surprise. She was quiet for a long moment, remembering the smile on your face during your last moments.
Then she smiled—through the tears, through the grief—that same soft, knowing smile she’d inherited from you. “Jon,” she whispered, her voice cracking but sure, “I’m a mother now.”
Jon blinked at her, confused.
Leia reached out and gently took his hand. “We were all of her minutes.”
She looked at both of them, her father, still immortal and ageless in body but weary in soul, and her brother, who had inherited your humanity, your kindness.
“If her brain really played those seven minutes,” Leia whispered, “we were all of them. Every single one.”
Clark felt something in his chest break open. The truth of it was so simple, so piercingly real. You had poured yourself into this family—every heartbeat, every breath, every laugh and sleepless night, every whispered “I love you.” You had loved them with every part of yourself, and that love didn’t fade. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in them.
His eyes closed, and the tears came then, silent and unrestrained. He reached out and pulled both of his children close—one on each side, his arms wrapping around them the way they once had when they were small.
As the night deepened, Clark whispered to the stars outside the window—softly, reverently, as though you could still hear him,
“Thank you for giving me forever.”
-
Clark closed his eyes. He let himself believe that maybe you weren’t really gone. Maybe those seven minutes weren’t an ending, but a bridge—a soft, golden moment stretched across eternity, where you’d wait for him, smiling the way you always did when he came home.
And when his time finally came, he knew he’d find you there, waiting with open arms, whispering, “Welcome home, my love. I’ve been saving every minute for you.”
(also guys good thing clark woke up after this nightmare! coincidentally, he had this nightmare the night he found out you were exposed to some cosmic energy that also renders you immortal! wow, so no one actually dies! haha im coping so hard)
what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)
you've been on four dates with johnny storm. you don't think it's serious. he has a different idea in mind. (johnny storm x fem!reader)
AN: this fic is VERY LOOSELY based off that one lyric in guilty as sin that became the title. i usually don't write super shy or oblivious characters, but i am too obsessed with an opposites attract dynamic. so this is what came about. i hope u enjoy & lmk what u think!!!!! also not proofread again super sorry
WORD COUNT: 5.7k
“Briefing notes?”
“Check.”
“Final printed copy of the speech?”
“In a PDF format as well! Check.”
“Lozenges?”
In honey lemon. “Check!”
“Triple shot flat white?”
You don’t vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. “Check.”
“You’re getting good at this.”
You fight a blush, waving off Lynne’s praise.
It’s always daunting entering the Baxter Building (especially now more than usual), but you stick behind Lynne and follow her lead. The lift attendant ushers you both into the steel-lined elevator after you showed proper identification, and you’re off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But you’ve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. It’s only when you hear the ding do you look up, straightening out your work pants and making sure the coffee cup in your hand stays upright.
At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually there’s Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you don’t understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne don’t question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything you’re holding on the counter.
It’s only when you feel like you’re taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors.
Sue Storm strides in, the pinnacle of elegance. She takes one moment to dust off a piece of lint from her red long-sleeve, made of a material that you’re sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, “Good morning.”
“Hardly,” says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynne’s friendship strung for many years that Lynne no longer bothers to give her an agreeable type of kindness that others seem to give at default for the Invisible Woman. “There’s a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.”
Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. “I almost forgot my coat.” She’s bounding down the hallway again, calling for Reed, but not before telling you both to get yourself comfortable and ushering you to the stools in front of the kitchen island.
You don’t look at Lynne for approval before taking a seat, legs sore from the morning run your friend made you go on before work. You busy yourself by opening the manila folder that holds Sue’s UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, that’d be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne).
You’re too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You don’t notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction.
A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater.
You jolt, not expecting the contact.
You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm.
“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he says flatly—a fact, yet there’s something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time you’d be making an appearance in his vicinity.
His hand stays on your back.
You open your mouth to reply, though with what you’re not sure, but his movements stop you. He reaches his other hand to your face, thumbs brushing in between your eyebrows and smoothing out the furrowed line. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.”
You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice.
When you look back, Johnny’s eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does.
Your association with Johnny is… new. You’ve been on a few dates, four to be exact, and each time your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you returned home and he’s already calling to schedule a new one. You’re unsure if you’re part of a rotation of girls, or if you’re the only one he’s seeing. You don't think it's the latter. You’re too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that you’re certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because he’d been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he is—to the eyes of all—incredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no.
You feel your face warm up at the intensity of his gaze, looking down briefly at your ballet flats to collect yourself. You look back up and manage a small smile, hoping it comes as casual and not the complete mess you feel inside.
You’re quiet—a plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words don’t leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent.
If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. “‘That the big speech?”
You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnny’s line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back.
He pretends to scan the page. His eyes dot over the little notes on the margin, arrows pointing before and between words. His mouth crinkle upwards when he notices the tiny smiley face you’ve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. “So professional,” he says coolly.
Sue finally comes back down the hallway, coat splaying on her arm. She notices you and Johnny and a knowing smile plays on her lips. “Time to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?”
“Not yet,” he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. It’s small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. “So—how about dinner tonight?”
You blink. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. When you’re done with all this UN business.” His tone is light, but there’s a shift in his eyes like he’s unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers.
You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynne’s attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. “I’ll see how late we’re there.”
“That’s not really the answer I was hopi—“
“Johnny,” Sue’s voice cuts through, demanding but light. “I’ll make sure she’s back in ample time if you can let us go.” She frowns at Lynne apologetically. “We’re already running late.”
They’re actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that.
Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. “I’ll take it.” He pushes off the counter, standing tall with a kind of confidence only the Human Torch can carry. He leans in and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes scanning your nervous face. “Try not to frown too much until then.”
The weight of Sue and Lynne’s gazes on you is strong.
You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car.
—
The UN conference goes by smoothly (for the most part), you not really doing much except standing to the side with Lynne while Sue delivers her speech with natural poise. At one point, a reporter walked up to you—nervous, unassuming you—to see if they could get the scoop of something, anything, on Sue Storm. You stared blankly at the reporter, not being trained for anything like this, until Lynne yanked your arm and said unequivocally, “We won’t be taking any questions.” The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do.
The interaction still haunts you as you toe off your flats upon entering your apartment, slinging your bag down on the floor as you make your way to the couch and flop. You wonder if the reporter approached you because maybe you looked too meek to deny anyone a question. You hate that feeling. You always thought a job like yours would be a great way to make an impact while still staying away from the spotlight and glamour of politics, but clearly you had been wrong. Especially if you’re affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.
You’re contemplating your life decisions when your chubby tabby, Kiwi, curls himself around your right leg. He sniffs lightly at your work pants before nuzzling his head softly on your shin. You smile, reaching down to pluck the docile animal from the floor and lay him carefully in your arms.
“You don’t have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?” you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Well neither do I—anymore, at least. Let’s feed you.”
You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwi’s food. Your nervous system calms down at the mundanity, continuing your late-afternoon routine of making sure the bowl of food and water is full. When you’re sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes.
You’re slipping off your blazer and blouse, eyes rummaging through your array of t-shirts in your drawer to see which one would be the comfiest to slip on. You pick a tattered college tee, the one where it slips off your shoulders to combat the light warmth with a pair of shorts to match. They have kiss marks printed in a straight pattern, something a friend got you for Valentine’s Day. It’s silk and feels nice on your skin. You slip off the remaining rings that adorn your fingers and hoop earrings, delicately placing them on a tray over your dresser. You breathe in relief, finally feeling normal again.
This is how the rest of your night goes, rummaging through your pantry for a snack and coddling Kiwi on the couch as you sift through various channels on your television. You’re praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when there’s a knock on your door.
Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door.
You open your door curiously, a hint of nerves, only to be met with Johnny.
Your nerves suddenly make more sense.
Your eyes angle up to meet his expression, one showing a bit of alarm.
“Who were you talking to?” he asks plainly, peering into your apartment.
You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. There’s a bunch of scattered papers, copies of the latest speech, on your small dining table. Various blankets litter your couch and you have two bottles of polish (one a top coat) on your rug. One part of the string lights you hung around your living room dangles down from when a tack broke and you were too lazy to fix it. Kiwi nudged a few pieces of kibble from his bowl and onto the floor.
It’s definitely not a sight to see for guests.
The silence stretches as you don’t have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat?
Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. “Sue said you were too tired for dinner.”
You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. It was a little embarrassing, a little scary, as you deny seeing Johnny to his sister. But still, she gave you a kind smile and said that she would tell him.
“But that never usually stops Johnny,” she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynne’s side.
You should’ve known he’d show up.
“Sue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,” he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. “But you need to eat.”
It’s then that you look down and see the brown bag in his other hand, and the familiar waft of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls.
He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up.
“It’s from that place you talked about. Chiu’s Garden, remember?”
The shock in you passes like a splash of cold water. You do remember. You said it in passing, once, about the Chinese takeout you get when work gets too busy and the ache in your head gets hard to manage and you don’t want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isn’t what shocks you. It’s the fact that Johnny of all people remembers.
There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce that’s on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?
If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesn’t comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. “Can I come in?”
You realize you haven’t spoken yet. “Are you a vampire?”
The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, unsure if you meant it as a joke or if it just slipped out because it’s the first thing your mind went to.
Johnny stifles a laugh. “A vampire?”
Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. “Vampires need permission to be let into private areas.” There’s a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing.
He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. “What have you been watching lately?”
You shrug. You don’t tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sue’s speech the night before. Or how you got fully immersed into it. Or how you talked to Kiwi about how thankful you are that you don’t have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment.
“Well, I’m no vampire,” he says.
There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you realize now that you might be in on a joke you created. Not wanting to disappoint him or bring the mood down because, hey, you’re not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. “Prove it.”
Johnny responds by taking a similar long step into your apartment, now standing right in front of you. Your chest nearly meets his as he looks down at you with a smirk. Your heart stutters, and you hope the lack of space between you two doesn’t mean that he can hear it. “See?”
You manage a small nod, walking around him to shut your door. You think your stomach might start doing backflips if you stay that close to Johnny, mind unsure if it’s a rush of nervousness or excitement.
He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that he’s allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though he’s never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen.
Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment.
Your eyes reply, I didn’t know he was coming!
“I know I didn’t show it—“ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. “—but I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!”
You pad the small way to the kitchen, peering in to see him open a plastic container and dip his fingers in to snipe a piece of broccoli.
“I had to look at each door to find your last name,” he says through a mouthful of broccoli. “Thank God you live on the second floor, right?” He turns to meet your eyes, giving you a close-lipped, goofy smile that has your mouth threatening to smile back. When he swallows, he motions to all the cupboards above him. “Do you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.”
“I—I just eat out the container,” you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed.
“Perfect! Me too.” He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”
You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isn’t the first time he’s been here. He tiptoes past Kiwi’s kibble on the floor and barely manages to knock down a picture frame that sits at the edge of your coffee table. He mutters an apology before putting the food down and sitting on your couch. “So what are we watching—oh. Hello.” He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. “Is this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?” He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwi’s ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted “We’re going to have great conversations,” he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat.
You find the sight awfully endearing. You don’t realize you’ve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. “You coming?”
You timidly make your way to the couch, now unsure of how to feel at place in your home when Johnny Storm is in it. Johnny Storm, who despite four dates, you’ve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, you’ve let him take you out continuously), but you’re still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when he’s across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you.
Now—here—with him on your couch, you don’t think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other dates’ houses like this; their favorite takeout and a soft smile that can quiet any ache. You wonder how different the other girls he sees are from you; if they stumble on their words despite ample practice.
You take a seat on the other end of the couch, Kiwi already taking up space in the middle. You angle yourself to face him, legs tucked under you with your arms still crossed.
“You’re too far away,” he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. “But I have a feeling he’s not going to move anytime soon, is he?”
This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. “He’s the boss.”
Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. “I should’ve known. Guess I’m gonna have to share you tonight.”
The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiu’s Garden menu, as he was unsure of what to get you. He has a delightful expression as you express that you like all of them. He pumps a fist in the air and you laugh, leaning down from the couch to pick your food of choice from the coffee table. He makes sure to give you a review of everything he tries, and he’s deeply satisfied, muttering about how you two need to go back together next time. Something flutters in your stomach at the mention of a next time.
Eventually, Kiwi grows bored of the Ted Gilbert Show and hops off the couch, lightly swaying as he makes his way into your bedroom for some peace and quiet. Johnny takes that as an opportunity to sit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and reaching his other to rest on your knee. He barely pays attention to the ministrations his thumb does on your knee, but it affects you greatly. You, again, wonder if he does this to other girls he’s with. You wonder if it’s stupid that you feel so special.
“Hey.”
You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking.
“What did I say?” he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.”
—
When you’re not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, you’re taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. You’ve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, you’re a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and they’re more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can.
The line isn’t long and you’re striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change.
“And, Freddie—“ she says, her eyes down at her bag, “—he keeps crying. He’s getting old. ‘Vet said he might be going blind in his right eye.”
Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But he’s only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sutton,” you say honestly. “Maybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.”
She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. “Or remind him of what he no longer has.”
Well, that took a turn.
You smile tensely at the older woman, taking the dollars and commit yourself to counting them instead of making the conversation worse. So much for comfort. She’s fifty cents off, but you don’t mention it.
You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders you’ve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but it’s a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place you’re comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind.
The bell over the door dings, alerting you of a new customer. You pass the finished drink to your coworker as she finishes heating a pastry. You dust off your hands and turn around.
“Hello, welcome to—“
You’re met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look.
Your mind goes blank.
Johnny doesn’t wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, “You’ve been overworking yourself.”
“I—what?”
“You were with Sue all day Tuesday, you cancelled our date yesterday to take a shift here and had an emergency meetup with Lynne, and now you’re back today. You’re overworking yourself.”
You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you don’t say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. “Aren’t you—“ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. “Aren’t you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.”
He shrugs off your answer like it’s nothing.
Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps.
You both turn your head to the sound.
“You weren’t lying?” she says, mouth wide. “You’re friends with Johnny Storm?”
Johnny immediately looks offended. “Friends?”
“Viv,” you say, ignoring him, “can you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? We’re out up here.”
Viv looks at you as if to say, you’re kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isn’t right here?
You manage a harsher look, and she’s off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesn’t. Johnny visits your place of work and the first thing that happens is your coworker ambushes him. And know he knows that you talk about him.
“I’m sorry about her, I’ll tell her to put her camera away,” you say.
Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. “I don’t care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesn’t Kiwi miss you?”
“… I did a face mask last night,” you say dumbly. You leave out the part where you were on the phone with an airline company until 2AM because you stupidly booked the wrong time for Sue and Reed’s flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed.
The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. “When do you get off here?”
You don’t really have set shifts, you’ve been here since 10AM and helping out any way you can. Hal had you making croissants with him for two hours until Viv asked for your help at the front. Now, it’s 5PM and the sun is getting ready to set—and you hate that Johnny is right, because you feel wrung out. Your body suddenly becomes more alert of the ache on your temples, and the emptiness of your stomach.
“I can technically leave whenever.”
His eyes light up. “Perfect! You’re leaving now. Grab your coat.”
“Johnny—“
“You can go,” a voice behind you says.
You turn to see Hal and Viv standing together by the door to the back, eyes wide in wonder as they continue to stare at Johnny. It’s a look you recognize from the amount of times you’ve spent with him. It’s why Johnny takes you to restaurants and you get seated at the most private corner, or why he wears sunglasses and a cap in the dead of winter when you stroll through the park. You appreciate the efforts Johnny goes to be unnoticed—knowing you don’t like the attention. But you wonder if that’s just how he’s been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize it’s been awhile since you’ve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe he’s tired of the cameras.
“Are you sure?” you ask Hal.
He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. “Croissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dog—“
“Hey!”
“—we’ll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks.
You’re too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnny’s face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnny’s side. He waits for you to slip on your coat before placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out the shop.
You swear you hear a click from Viv’s camera.
You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second you’re out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up.
He’s silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, he’s already talking your ear off about his day, or something Ben has cooked since he knows your affinity with anything cooking or baking-related. You usually stay silent when he gets like that, listening intently and only giving your input when he manages to force it out of you (even after all this time, you’re still nervous).
But there’s none of that today. Silence stretches even as you enter your apartment building, him holding the door open for you, and as you pat the snow from your boots onto the rug (normally, this is where Johnny says something stupid, like how you both look like ducks shaking water off by a pond). You walk up the stairs and open your apartment door, still silent.
Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at you—for overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Viv’s peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing you’re just like any other person who brags about his existence. But it’s not like that! You wonder if you’ve ruined what you and he have—whether you know what you guys are or not.
Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your door—
“I’m your friend?”
You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. “Hm?”
“That’s how they talked about me,” he says, and you know he’s referring to Hal and Viv. “They said I’m your friend. Is that how you talk about me?”
He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. “Um… yeah?”
Because you don’t know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when you’re tired, and shows up to work to make sure you haven’t been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons you’re a little unsure of why. Isn’t that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isn’t he seeing other people?
Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. “That’s really what you think we are?”
Your lips part, but you don’t answer. He’s standing so close now that you can see the faint tint of pink on his nose from the cold. His breath fans down at you. You try to imagine what Johnny wants to hear, but still, you’re unsure. “You and I…” you say slowly, “We’re—what else would we be?”
His jaw ticks. “Together.”
Together. As in, you and Johnny. You think about Johnny walking you to your door, eyes lingering at your lips but he moves to kiss your cheek and you’re convinced you’d just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones you’ve cooked, so you can compare (“I bet yours is better,” he says plainly, taking another bite. “Do you agree? Or are you too modest?”). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because they’re gonna get stuck like that.
You blink at him, voice small. “Together?”
Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. “Yeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?”
Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. “I—I thought you were just being… you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.”
His head jerks back. “'The other girls'? Well first, nobody’s that nice. At least, not like I have been. I’ve only ever been like this with you.”
Your stomach turns at the admission.
“Second, what other girls? You think I’ve been seeing other people?”
You’re too embarrassed to answer, because you know your answer would be yes. Instead, you huff a large sigh and press your palms to your eyes. “I don’t know what to think right now, Johnny.”
You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. “Hey, hey,” he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. You’re immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that you’re unsure how to name. “I’m sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.”
He envelopes you in a hug, warm and all-encompassing, the kind that makes you realize just how cold the outside has made you without noticing. His chin rests against the top of your head.
Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnny’s words, you melt into him. The exhaustion from the conversation, from work, from everything presses down harder, and the steadiness of his heart against your head makes something inside you settle.
Johnny thinks you too are together.
You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing.
“We’re together,” you say softly into his chest, breathing him in.
“We are,” he says, a whisper.. “I’m sorry for not making it more… known. I thought you knew.”
“No,” you say, shaking your head and laughing a little.
“I didn’t know. I’m too in my head about this, you know?” you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction you’ve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory.
The two of you stay tangled in each other’s arms until a small meow interrupts your moment, Kiwi coming to curl around your feet. You untangle yourself from Johnny to pick up the cat, resting his body against your chest as you turn to the side so that Kiwi’s head is facing Johnny.
“Kiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didn’t you?” There’s a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head.
“He’s all-knowing,” he adds with a grin. He reaches out to caress your cheek, pulling you back in, Kiwi in the middle. He sighs happily. “You better reintroduce me to Hal and Viv,” he whispers softly into your hair.
Tags: 18+ MDNI, Superman (2025) SPOILERS, takes place right after the movie, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slow burn, acquaitance to friends to lovers, FUCK IT WE YEARN, canon typical violence, mention of a joint, fade to black smut, nudity, non-explicit description of animal cruelty, reader's nickname is Zen, reader wears skirts, reader has a shitty dad (haz classic)
Summary: coming back from a grueling jury duty, you find that your apartment was destroyed by the dimensional rift. you have no other choice than to move back in with the love of your life/best friend, Clark Kent. Only, he doesn't know you're in love with him.
Word count: 10.5k
my masterlist
Dr. Zen
11.28am
[Picture sent]
Smallville
What the fuck
I came back from jury duty to find Superman busted my building's electrical wiring AND plumbing?
11.30am
[Picture sent]
Was there a dimensional rift here???
Smallville
11.31am
Yes
Sue LutherCorp
11.32am
Sorry
I will come by tomorrow to help you pack
Where are you staying tonight?
Dr. Zen
11.36am
Marriott
Smallville
11.37am
Okay 👌
11.40am
Can Lois have an exclusive interview about the case if she comes and helps?
Dr. Zen
11.40am
Yes
11.42am
No Jimmy unless he brings his car.
And donuts.
Your things are mostly packed away neatly in boxes, thanks to Clark running the team like the Navy. Dishes, fine china, an alarming number of boots, dresses, and leather jackets. Unfortunately, your comfy yellow couch didn't make it out of Metropolis’ latest catastrophe.
You mourn the loss of half of your books and vinyl collection. They're probably deep in the proton river. Damn you Lex Luthor.
Lois is still sorting through your closet. Clark is packing away the remainder of your trinkets. Jimmy has assigned himself to your snack cabinets.
“—He was about to get off because of a technicality. Illegally obtained evidence,” You explain, taping shut yet another box. You raise your voice a little, “So you flew with Mr. Terrific? In his… flying saucer? To save Superman from a pocket dimension prison?”
Clark lets out a soft chuckle at the memory. Clearly, the event did not leave any traumatic marks in his brain at all.
“Yes!” Lois yells from your closet. “Is this Chanel dress Cat's? It says ‘Cat’ on the hanger.”
“Actually yeah, I've been meaning to get that to her,” You say. “Can you—”
“I'll take it!” Jimmy abandons the box of candies he's been filling up on your kitchen counter, and makes a beeline for Lois.
Clark walks over with the last box of your trinkets. “You know the Infinite Monkey Theorem? That a monkey, given a typewriter and an infinite amount of time will probably write the complete works of Shakespeare?”
You raise an eyebrow. “I'm familiar, yes.”
“Imagine that, but with an infinite typewriter and infinite monkeys,” He says. “That's Lex's Superman hate bots.”
“They came up with hashtag supersh—”
“Zen,” Clark interrupts with a sigh.
“Supersh—”
“You don't have to say it.”
“Hashtag supershit?” you say quickly, before he can interrupt again. Clark groans, but the twitch of his lips betrays him. “Lex Luthor, a genius billionaire with an army of engineers at his disposal, decided to mind control a bunch of monkeys as bots instead of… I don't know, program a couple lines of code for it?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“Seems highly inefficient,” You comment. “Though it irritates you to no end, so I guess it is efficient.”
Clark scrunches his face in protest. “Shut up.”
“Okay, this is the last one,” Lois carries the last box of your clothes, stacking them on top of the others. Jimmy is holding a Chanel shopping bag with a donut on the other hand. “What was it that convinced you he was guilty?”
“The way he talked about the victims, the women. Like he's doing God's work by killing them. The smile on his face every time the prosecutor put their pictures on the screen,” You explain. “Doesn't Mr. Terrific look super hot during battle?”
Clark sighs, again. “Zen.”
You ignore him, wiggling your eyebrows at Lois. She grins, “Smoking.”
As the four of you carry the boxes, some going into your neighbor’s stolen Costco cart and some carried by Clark, Jimmy fiddles with his camera.
“So Zen,” He says, nudging your elbow with his. “Can I also get a quote from a disgruntled citizen regarding the aftermath of the dimensional rift incident?”
Clark furrows his eyebrows. “Come on, man.”
“What?” The photojournalist exclaims. “It might pressure insurance companies to cover Superman-related damage.”
You grin. “Gladly.”
Clark bumps his forehead on the back of your head in response.
Jimmy and Lois leave after an early dinner. It's just you and Clark, in this apartment, reminiscent of your grad student days at Metropolis University. The only lights come from the city below, and from the kitchen.
You hand Clark his hot chocolate and take your seat next to him.
You can't lie—you miss this. The moments when time slows down, only you and Clark, in this living room, before you both have to grow up and get actual jobs. Back then, you'd have a joint and Clark would happily snack on some waffles at one in the morning.
His face is illuminated by the city lights. Orange and blue, making the nuclear fusion in his irises dance.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, folding your legs in. “I mean, it's a pretty Earth-shattering discovery—about your parents’ message. Amongst other things?”
Clark chuckles. “Amongst other things?”
“Krypto got kidnapped, you watched an innocent man get killed in front of you, you almost died, you had to fight your own doppelganger—should I go on?”
Clark shakes his head. “Okay that's—”
“Some people would call these traumatic events, Hannah Montana.”
His hand touches yours on the space between your bodies, fingers coiling around your palm. You grip them back just as tight.
“Remember that spring break, when I took you to the farm?” He asks. “You told me about your parents. You told me that you're jealous of me because I was living proof that it doesn't need violence to be strong.”
You nod.
“You didn't mean that because I'm from Krypton. You remember what you said?”
You throw your head over the back of the sofa. “Because it takes strength to be kind, and you're the kindest person I know.”
“Yeah,” He smiles, all teeth and dimples. “My parents–my birth parents–I didn't become Superman for them. Remember that other thing you said about your dad?”
You tilt your head to recall it.
“Just because he sent me money doesn't mean he can tell me what to do. What am I, his prostitute?”
Clark laughs. “No, the other thing.”
“The only reason I will follow his footsteps is to track him down to drag him to hell myself?”
“Golly, I should be more specific,” He says with a smile, dimples and all. “About who you are. And you said this, not tweeted.”
“Oh!” You sit up straighter. “I am what I am in spite of him.”
“That one.”
“I said that because you thought he sent me to kill you!”
Clark throws his head back in laughter. “I don't know what you're talking about. I never doubted you for a second!”
With your free hand, you pick up a decorative pillow and swing it to his face. He barely flinches. Then, you bring your intertwined hands and press a kiss to the back of his.
“I'm glad you survived, Huckleberry,” You grin. “Which, I should probably thank Lois and Mr. T more for that. Do you think he'll like cookies or a flower arrangement more?”
Clark groans, pulling his hand out from yours. “No–”
“'M serious, star boy,” You say, reaching for your phone to place an online order from your favorite florist. “What kind of flowers say, thank you for saving the world and my best friend?”
“No. No. No–” Your phone is snatched from your hand. “It's his literal job, okay? And he's a multi-millionaire. I'm doing this for free! You should get me something!”
“Did you at least manage to snag a sample of the Kaiju that Luthor released?”
He looks at you incredulously. “No?”
You smirk. “I bet Michael did.”
“Oh, he's Michael now? Okay, that's it. I'm not making you coffee tomorrow,” Clark teases, walking towards the kitchen with the glasses.
“What?” You whine, chasing him. “No, babe, I'm sorry. You make the best coffee! Clark—”
This apartment was yours first.
Like, come on. Floor-to-ceiling windows on the 25th floor of one of the tallest apartment buildings in Metropolis? Walking distance to the subway and yet still a good distance away from the city that you don't hear the hustling and bustling after 10pm? Granite counter tops and marble floor?
On a journalist salary? Please.
You met Clark during a science communications class, an elective for him, and for funsies for you. You were breezing through your doctorate, and he was completing his degree in robotics engineering.
“Can you help me open this up?” You asked the guy sitting next to you, who was half asleep on his laptop.
Swirling bright blue eyes blinked up at you, as if he was surprised you were talking to him.
You raised an eyebrow, awaiting his response.
“Right, yeah,” He took the water bottle from you and twisted open the cap with ease. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
After that, Clark became a sort of ally in that monster of a class. Seventy students from other majors, eager undergrads, with an annoying TA, and you've got a 6’4” pure muscle to power through them. You knew small things about him, like, how he grew up on a farm in Kansas, how he wants to be a journalist to do good—and then, how his roommate was kicking him out so the girlfriend can move in.
“Maybe I should look through Craigslist,” He murmured once, scrolling through apartment listings near campus. “These prices are insane.”
“Craigslist is how people get trafficked, Ranger Rick.”
“I'm desperate,” he groaned. “I need to move out by this weekend.”
You had looked at him, then, hunched posture and all. A baseball cap put on backwards, flannel softer than clouds, blue eyes desperately scanning the words on his screen.
“Do you cook, Kent?” You asked.
“Yes. Amazingly.”
You smiled. “Amazing.”
It was a no brainer for you, really to offer him your space. You did have quite the bleeding heart for your friends. Besides, the place is in your name. And if it pissed off your parents? Well that's just a reward for being a generous person.
“I figured Neuroscience is a lucrative field,” Clark whistled. “But I didn't think grad students are paid this well.”
“We're not,” You told him. “This is a bribery gift from my dad.”
Clark whistled. “Golly.”
On Monday, your interview with Lois Lane made the front page. Every news outlet has covered the trial of the Green Creek Killer, but Lois managed to come up with a fresh angle, sharp, smart, and most importantly, not dehumanizing.
You stare at the scans of the Kaiju that Michael sent you over the weekend, then replayed the battle to create a model, trusting his algorithm to do the process before you recheck it yourself.
A serial killer seems menial amongst Superman's adventures.
It makes you feel left out, sometimes, as you are not in on the whole superhero thing. You don't know what it's like, walking into battle, having accelerated healing, or flying. You do know the secret identity of two superheroes, that's got to count, right?
Your computer beeps. You scan the results before sending Michael a message.
You
11.24 am
Not enough brain activity to indicate a more intelligent life form. Nothing to indicate hunger, just breathing. Air and fire.
Rapid cell growth is catalyzed by the sun.
That is closer to a lizard or a plant depends on how you look at it.
Michael Holt
11.24am
So what is it?
You
11.25am
My best guess? Lex's own lab experiment.
Contains DNA sequences of similar species from at least 3 different planets.
Michael Holt
11.25am
Great. Just great.
You
11.26am
Or you could say it's… Terrific?
Michael Holt
11.28am
You're lucky you own half your lab.
11.29am
Meet me at the loading dock.
Fifty thousand monkeys are in the loading dock. Holt Industries employees are cataloging crates, feeding yelling monkeys, and cleaning monkeys dropping off the floor.
Okay, maybe not fifty thousand monkeys. Maybe only a hundred or so, but it’s a hundred more than you’d like in your lab.
“Michael,” You drawl to the man standing tall, supervising, out of his Mr. Terrific disguise. “Why are there monkeys in my lab?”
“These aren’t all for you,” he says, arms crossed, tone flat like always. “I’ll give you a group to study, see if Luthor’s treatment towards them has any impact on their brain activity. The rest will be studied for other fields that we accommodate here.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And the goal? For funsies?”
“For science,” he corrects. “And rehabilitation.”
“Rehabilitation?” You repeat. “Superman is rubbing off on you.”
His eyes fall to you. “Quit messin' around. Go back to work.”
You give him a mock salute. “Sir, yes, sir!”
Surprisingly, even with (probably) brain-damaged surprise monkeys, you still get home before Clark. The apartment is empty and dark, with a window open for his coming and going. You decide to wash off the monkey aura that seems to cling to your clothes.
Clark, or, in this case, Superman, comes back through the open window to you leaning over the kitchen counter, scrolling on your phone, clad only in your bathrobe. He almost falls over with the way his knees give out from underneath him at the sight.
“‘Sup Supes,” you greet without looking up from the tiny screen. “French toast?”
His heart stutters. Gone is the Superman persona. “Yeah—yeah, let me just—”
Clark should be over this. Over you.
Over the feelings of content domesticity that blooms in his chest every time he gets to come home to you. Over the feelings of awe and pride at your brilliance. Over the feelings of like he's the only person in the world when you're nice to him.
When you smile at him, when you care about him.
Gosh. A cold shower doesn't help him much.
You're clothed when he comes out, thankfully. Still leaning on the counter, this time stabbing and munching your piece of French toast like it owes you money. Two pieces are sizzling on the pan. The smell of burnt sugar and cinnamon fills the room.
“Work was that bad?” He asks, when he notices the chamomile as your chosen beverage. Clark leans next to you, still keeping a safe length apart. For his sake.
You turn off the stove, then plate stack the rest of the French toast on top of the rest of the pile. Clark helps himself to three pieces, and you drizzle some maple syrup on top.
“Call me Elphaba the way I've got an army of monkeys in my lab,” You say, shoveling another piece to your mouth. Clark moves to the dining table. You follow begrudgingly.
“Why monkeys?”
“Your Shakespeare monkeys,” You clarify. “We're trying to figure out what's up with them before we can decide if they can be rehabilitated.”
Clark pauses mid-chew. He decides to take another second to finish chewing, swallows, then pops another piece in his mouth. His voice is clear when he finally says, “And if they can't?”
There's something about that tone. That judgemental Clark Kent tone reserved for people and things and opinions he may slightly disapprove or disagree with. That subtle questioning a seasoned journalist is trained to do.
Unfortunately for him, you are fluent in Clark Kent. “That's above my paygrade, Clark. This whole thing is outside of my specialty, you know that?”
Your specialty being aliens. Monkeys aren't exactly from outer space.
“I'm just saying—you're doing animal studies. Like they are lab rats.”
“They are test subjects.”
Clark puts his fork down and turns to you. Blue eyes staring straight down to your soul. “They are living beings.”
“Yes, and we are trying to rehabilitate them or did you miss that part?” You say, because Clark doesn't have a monopoly over being mean during a fight. “All I'm trying to find is if Luthor's mind control has any lasting effects on their brain activity. That's it. I'm taking it one step at a time.”
You take your empty plate away and put it in the dishwasher.
When your eyes find Clark again, there's an apology written all over his face.
“If we release these monkeys into the wild, it is going to be an ecological disaster. Here in Metropolis, they have started to become an invasive species—please don't start on the phrasing. It's scientific, not stigmatizing.”
“Okay,” He says.
“Okay,” You echo.
Clark calls you Zen because of a group project.
It was you and two other people. Both equally as stupid as they were lazy, with you carrying the whole thing. Clark, leaving his own group, found you in the corner of the class, sitting crisscrossed on an empty desk with your eyes closed.
You looked at peace, if not for a second. He thought you looked pretty, too.
“What are you doing?” He asked, sitting on the floor. He was so tall still that his shoulder brushed with your knee.
“Finding my zen,” You said, eyes still closed. “I'm trying to think about something nice and peaceful, but it's hard with those bumbling idiots fucking everything up.”
A pause, as Clark debated on if he really was going to tell you more about himself. If you would actually care.
“How do you feel about cows?”
“Cows?” You asked, tilting your head just a touch.
“Yeah, cows. We have lots of them. Horses, too, for a while, before we downsized,” Clark said. “My Ma and Pa, they have a farm in Smallville, Kansas. I helped out.”
You didn't respond, but Clark could hear your breathing evened out, heartbeat steadying. So he continued.
“In the morning, just after sunrise, the yellow sunlight hit just right. It gives this glowing golden shine over the grass, and it smells like butter and cinnamon because my Ma would make her pancakes,” He reminisced. “You can hear the trees rustling, the birds singing. And there's this sunflower patch where the flowers are so tall they swallow me whole. I swear you can hear them sing in the wind.”
You bumped your knee to his shoulder, catching his attention. There was a soft smile on your lips, softer than anything Clark had ever felt in his life.
“Found your zen, yet?”
And when you nodded, jumping off the desk to join him on the floor, the nickname stuck. You had been calling him a different nickname every time in retaliation.
“Your hometown sounds nice, Kent,” You said. “You have to take me sometimes.”
“Maybe,” Clark stood up, extending a hand to help you up too. You took it. “Do you practice Buddhist teachings often?”
“I'm a scientist, cowboy,” You told him. “I don't believe in gods. Buddhism is the only one that doesn't have a God. I like how they roll.”
You just finished grabbing coffee with Cat, walking the last stretch of your commute to work when one of Michael's T-Spheres zooms past your head. You stifle a groan, totally not in the mood for yet another alien attack.
Sure enough, your technically-boss is flying up ahead in his flying fucking chair.
You keep walking, because frankly, you just got this dress back from a dry cleaning switcharoo and you don't want it ruined.
But of course, living in Metropolis does not give you that luxury. Not a minute later, as you're waiting to cross an intersection, you are hit with a sticky goo that smells weirdly like blueberries and frangipani in a ditch.
You open your eyes to find Superman flying nearby with a grimace on his face.
“Come on, Supes!” You groan. “This is vintage Vivienne Westwood!”
“I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll be back, promise!” And he flows off.
“Yeah I'll cover for him at work,” You jump at the voice, too distracted by your own annoyance to notice Lois standing there, a microphone in hand to cover the attack. “You want some tissues?”
You shake your head. “No, I can change at work. Thanks though. See you around, Lane!”
Clark visits you at your lab. You received an email to confirm clearance for him fifteen minutes ago. He had to come in as Clark because at least he's sensible enough to decontaminate his suit from alien goo.
He looks devastatingly handsome like that. He has always looked devastatingly handsome to you, but especially then, when the blue lighting from the decontamination chamber highlights his eyes and his lips. His stray curl sits perfectly on top of his head.
Fuck him for looking that good after he forced you to work in this Holt Industries-assigned jumpsuits.
You hand him a pair of goggles, so he can see what you see on the hologram screen.
“What are you looking at?” He asks, putting the goggles on.
“Preliminary scans from the monkeys,” You answer, tapping your fingers on the tablet.
Clark shakes his head, in awe. “Wow, this is—.”
A chuckle escapes from your lips. You can't help it. As brilliant as his super-intelligence is, Clark makes it look oh-so-adorable. He smiles as if he had won something.
“Okay, you see this scan? That's control. Same species of monkeys, but had a normal monkey life,” You point. “That's the Shakespeare monkey's.”
“They're way different," he points. “Why? I’d expect the Shakespeare monkeys to have more brain activity than a normal monkey, but this doesn't seem like their prefrontal cortex is more developed.”
“Because their brain was stimulated so much that idle state activated their pain receptors,” You slide your finger down, pointing to a model of a monkey brain with markers. “Impulse control and emotional regulation function are fucked, basically.”
“What the hay,” Clark marvels.
“They also lived in conditions with lack of sunshine, natural prey, and natural predators,” You continue.
Clark turns to you, mouth agape in surprise and confusion. “What does this mean?”
You pull up another scan. This time an MRI. “See that grey square at the frontal lobe? That's a device Luthor installed. These monkeys aren't thinking for themselves, Cronkite. They were trained with a dataset, controlled by an algorithm.”
“Like a living, breathing LLM, ” He breathes out. “So can they be rehabilitated? Back to normal monkey ways?”
You take off your goggles, welcoming the pristine conditions of your workspace as a break from the onslaught of information. Clark follows suit.
“I'm not gonna lie to you, Steve Irwin,” Clark doesn't like your resigned sigh. “It's going to be real fucking hard and expensive. I don't know if anyone's going to want to bleed money for this.”
Clark clenches his jaw, eyes downcast on the shining floor. Clean as a whistle.
“I'll tell you this, though, off the record,” You continue. “Mr. T has the idea to wipe their previous program and give them a new dataset: monkey behavior. We're consulting with zoologists and botanists and environmentalists and all the ists there could possibly be.”
His voice is small when he speaks. “What if that's not enough?”
“This monkey wrote hundreds of hashtag supershit tweets,” You try to joke, make it a little lighter, but it doesn't land.
Clark only shakes his head. “Doesn't matter.”
You understand. Of course, you do. He's the epitome of the best humanity can be. Of all the good in the world. Of course he can't let a bunch of monkeys die just because they were mind controlled.
“Look,” You take a deep breath. “You clear out the immediate danger, save some lives, but there are people who have to deal with the aftermath. Our infrastructure isn't exactly built with alien attacks and crazy billionaires in mind.”
Lois wrote about the people of Boravia who called for justice after the death of their president in the hands of Hawkgirl, about the people of Jarhanpur who had to rebuild. Perry published a community op-ed about the DoD losing control and power.
And Superman will face that danger when he has to, but he gets to go to his fortress and go back to being Clark Kent afterwards.
“I'm sorry,” You say when he doesn't respond. You type your code to the tab, and a box comes down the chute you usually use to transport samples and small equipment. “I have something for you.”
Clark takes his seat across from you, still contemplating, still reeling, but now curious.
You slide the box closer to him and he opens it without hesitation.
It's an earpiece, sticks to the skin like it's a magnet. Clark can tell it is not. It's small enough to not be noticeable.
“We don't want to repeat the whole school fiasco and I know how hard it is to think quickly on the ground, mid-fight, considering all variables,” You start. “This connects you to dispatch so they can inform you where the evacuation points and triage centers are. To minimize victims and property damage.”
“And you?” He asks, pointing to your smart watch. “Does it connect to you?”
“Just alerts,” You answer. “Why?”
Clark clears his throat. “Can you—can you connect this to you so I know you're safe?”
You smile. “More than that, ET. I'll tell you where to go so you don't kill me.”
His grin is blinding again. Bright, bright, bright. “Wouldn't want that.”
There was a 6-foot-4-inch-head-full-of-curls reason why you had to move out.
It was the way he speaks, so gently that it strains your ears to try and hear him. It was the way he touches, soft and sure and it will send you into cardiac arrest. It was the way he smiles, the way he knows you inside and out, the way he's good and you are not so good.
It was to protect yourself.
You have seen the dates he went out with. Hell, one of them was a colleague from work. She had come to you, two weeks in, saying he's the best man she's ever going to find. Only for him to end it.
“I can't even be mad at him,” She told you over lunch once. “He was so sweet. And he's right, of course. We didn't really click. But God, it was devastating to lose him, even after only a couple of weeks.”
You have seen the devastation. She cashed in the entirety of her annual leave when it happened.
You couldn't afford that. If her two-weeks-of-dating resulted in that much chaos in her life, what is it going to do to your months (years) of repressed feelings? You would inevitably fuck it all up, like you did a lot of things, then you'd lose him completely as a bitter ex.
Clark didn't understand it at first. He said, if anyone's moving out it should be him. You didn't care. You told him the apartment feels like a chain by your father and him being there made you feel better.
He didn't argue much after that. You could still see his sadness leaking out of his skin.
It was a challenge, navigating between both your schedules to have weekend brunch together. Between your fellowship at STAR Labs over at Central City and his freelancing between publications, every meeting felt precious.
You missed him, but you also felt like you were breathing again.
An article written by Lois Lane changed everything.
An op-ed about Lex Luthor being in cahoots with the government at the front page of the Daily Planet. How his arsenal of weapons is being paid off by the American tax payers through DoD purchases and tax breaks. It sat on the restaurant table with Clark glancing at it a few times.
“Sometimes, it feels like there's no hope, you know,” You wiped your mouth with a napkin, nodding towards the paper.
“Why not?” He asked.
“What can we do, Gandhi, against guns and money?” You chuckled humorlessly. “If I have a fraction of the power those metahumans at LordTech have, I know who I'm going after.”
“Zen, that is called assassinations.”
You shrugged. “People will die either way.”
“At least you know they're not doing any harm,” Clark defended. “They're funded by LordTech to protect and serve.”
“Sounds very cop-y to me. You know, that's the police's motto,” You snort. “They are good until Maxwell Lord decides they are evil. What we need is someone with a moral compass. That'd be the day.”
The next weekend, Clark took you back to Smallville. It was Christmas, and Clark had taken you there almost every year since you've known him. So you could feel what it was like to have a family that loved you, he said. Ouch, Clark, you said to him. But the sentiment was appreciated nonetheless.
You didn't expect him to show you his powers, though. You didn't expect to receive a crash course of his birth planet and the multiple accounts of federal crime Martha and Jo committed just to adopt him.
“All this time, you could've turned off the smoke alarm in three seconds but you decided not to?” You said when he took flight.
“Why the fuck are we wasting money on a microwave?” You exclaimed during his showcase of heat vision.
“You let me suffer during that heatwave last year?” You threw your arms out in frustration as he blew freezing air out of his lungs.
“I fucking hate you, Kent,” You said, holding on to him for dear life as he suspended you both above the clouds. You could see the stars, constellations shining brighter than they ever were from the ground.
“I know,” He laughed, the stars twinkling in his eyes. “I have been thinking about what you said. I've been trying to find who I am. And my parents—my biological parents—sent me to protect humanity, lead them to be better.”
A God amongst men, as the media would call him later. But you knew then while he was different, he was still Clark Kent from your science communications class who could reel your anger in just by talking.
Clark Kent who had never said a swear word in his life.
Clark Kent, who's gentle and kind and gets flustered when you compliment him.
You didn't believe in God, but you'd worship him anyway.
You smiled at him. “Clark Kent, you are goodness personified. If anyone can make humans more human, it's you. Which is ironic since, y’know, you're an alien.”
He beamed at you, all shining and bright, bright, bright. “I wish I could show you my fortress.”
“You have a what—?”
The next morning, after he finished his farm chores, Clark took you to a lake nearby, probably the one thing that kept his already spread out neighbors from hearing him take off and fly.
It felt serene, with Martha's homemade lemonade and Clark's signature homemade sourdough sandwiches between you on that boardwalk. Your feet were crossed underneath you, Clark's flannel tied around your shoulders.
“Why did you choose to tell me?” You asked him, moving your gaze from the glimmering water to your best friend.
Clark's arms hugged his raised knees loosely, half a sandwich in his hands. “I want you to know.”
“Yeah, but—why?” You pressed, confused. “Not that I don't appreciate it, but we don't live together anymore. It'll be easier for you to keep it a secret, the less who knows the safer it is, right? You'll get nemesis and stuff.”
His grin is infectious. “You're gonna sell me out?”
“I mean, when you found out who my dad was, you asked if he sent me to kill you,” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Now I know it's not just for writing shit about LuthorCorp.”
“Because I want you to know,” he repeated, feet nudging your knee. “Because you know me better than anyone. Because you looked out for me all these years and I want you to know I can look out for you, too.”
A breeze brushed his curls, enhancing his softness. His eyes were locked on yours, begging you to understand what he was saying. You did, but you wouldn’t let yourself bask in the sureness of his feelings. If he was going around to play hero, you wouldn’t be the only person he was looking out for.
You had to share him with the world, and you weren’t sure if you were prepared for that.
You shifted your gaze back to the lights on water, “Are you sure it’s not because of my brilliance? You need help in programming your robots, don’t you?”
Clark laughs, “Yes, amongst other things.”
Something is wrong. Something is deeply, deeply wrong and you feel it in your bones when you wake up that morning.
Clark has already left, meaning you have to deal with the chills alone. The horizon of Metropolis skyline seems to be mocking you as you get ready for the day.
It's stupid, to worry this much. If something is wrong you know Clark will come to your rescue. But you still can't shake the feeling of being watched.
You put on your earpiece to reassure yourself that Clark is at the end of it.
Michael Holt
9.47am
Bio's cohort. Chips unresponsive.
Your status?
You
9.48am
Normal.
Any reason?
Michael Holt
9.48am
Breach attempt at 0900 hours. Immediately contained and traced.
9.49am
Check your email??? Damn.
You
9.50am
And? Source?
Michael Holt
9.50am
You're not going to like this.
There were three main reasons why Michael Holt, a.k.a Mr. Terrific, hunted you down at STAR Labs to come work under him.
One, because you are brilliant. Two, because Clark has declined to join the Justice Gang (Pending Trademark) and he needed something to keep him somewhat contained, and three, because of who your father is.
There are three reasons why you said yes. One, because you are brilliant. Two, because he gave you free reign over your research. And three, because you want to keep an eye on Clark as best as you can.
And here you are.
Your monkeys, your circus, and unfortunately, you are the clown.
“Superman, which quadrant are you handling right now?” You ask through the earpiece.
“West of LuthorCorp,” He answers back. “Zen, this is your dad's doing?”
“Unfortunately,” You sigh. “Terrific, any updates on the chip?”
“It's hard to scan when they're covered by fur, skin, bone, skull, brain matter, and constanty—omph—moving! No, that's really expensive! First the dog and now a monkey?”
You look around your lab, where every one of your colleagues have evacuated. It's eerily empty, unlike the usual bustling and hustling of overachieving scientists, save for the beeping of some robot assistants.
The moment you open what the bio engineering people call the Sanctuary, the silence is cut with the screeching of at least two dozen monkeys.
“Supes, I need your help,” You call. “The facility is on lockdown so you have to—”
A loud boom startles you. Clark dust off the concrete particles from his shoulders as he approaches you from the Superman-sized hole in the wall.
“Did you break a wall in my lab?” Mr. Terrific’s voice complains in your ear.
He shrugs, “Technically, it’s Zen’s lab.”
“Cut it from my paycheck!” You tell him, before turning to Clark. “I need you to grab me one of those.”
Clark raises an eyebrow. “One of the monkeys?”
“Yes.”
“You want me to go grab you a monkey?”
“Yes, Superman, I'd like you to grab me a monkey, please.”
Clark waits for you to input the access code to open the giant terrarium. The door hisses open, and he grabs the first monkey that jumps out gently.
This is why you ask for him and not Guy.
The monkey fights him, but Clark barely flinches. You lead him to an empty slab, a mask in hand ready for anesthesia.
“What are we doing?” Clark asks, wary that you might hurt the monkey.
“We're taking out his chip,” You explain. “A simple procedure like a brain biopsy.”
Clark hums. “I don't know if I like ‘simple procedure’ and ‘brain biopsy’ in the same sentence.”
A new voice crackles in your ear. It's Hawkgirl. “Since when are you an expert in neurosurgery?”
“Zen did her residency for two years before deciding dealing with patients is not her specialty,” Clark answers with ease. He positions the now unconscious monkey on the slab.
You power up the machine the bioengineering team designed specifically for extracting tissue samples from odd aliens. This time, it's just an odd monkey. Your hands grip the handles that control the delicate robotic hands.
“It's not there! Fuck!” You swear. “The chip is in a different place than I anticipated. I need you to guide me.”
Clark moves behind you, chest pressing against your back as he places his hands on top of yours on the handles. He stands towering the machine, so his x-ray vision isn't obstructed.
You can feel the material of his suit against your lab coat. You feel his annoyingly soft hands against yours. You feel his breath against your neck as he positions himself to your level.
Fuck. You know he can feel your heart beat going a mile a minute. You wish he'd chalk it up to adrenaline.
You try to not let his closeness distract you. Pretty easy when you hear explosions outside.
His hands are gentle when he moves.
“This is very unnerving,” He whispers in your ear. You shiver despite trying not to. “How are you so calm right now?”
“Would you like me to freak out, Supes?”
“Okay, there we are,” He says. “Right there. About half an inch deep.”
You put in the order for an extraction, the small metal chip makes a soft clink as it falls into a petri dish. You put in another order for a close up on the machine.
A T-sphere flies past you, open and ready to receive the chip so Mr. Terrific can reprogram it.
“If you two are done cuddling, I'd take that chip, thank you very much,” His voice is modulated. “And Superman, we need you out there.”
The T-sphere flies away, leaving you with Clark.
You gently move the sleeping monkey into your arms, its head spotless like nothing ever happened. There's a quarantine pod at the other end of the lab, so you set the monkey down with a blanket on one of the moving robotic cart before putting in the instructions.
“I have to round up some monkeys now,” Clark says, eyes blue and bright and desperate despite his teasing tone. He pauses then, hesitates, before saying, “Zen, you are the kindest person I know. I think it's important for you to know that.”
You swallow, unsure on what to say. You know what it means, coming from him, you just don't know if you are ready to unpack that yet.
Out of all the adventures you and Clark have gone through together, this is the first time you have actually teamed up with him.
This is what you wanted. Excitement, middle of the action.
“Superman—” You start to say. What are you going to say? Be safe? He's Superman. That you love him? He's Clark. “I'll see you soon.”
Clark smiles like he knows something you don't, and then he flies away.
The minute you step outside after ensuring the monkey is safely sleeping in a quarantine pod, chaos greets you. You can see Mr. T hovering above the street, dodging mind controlled monkeys as he tries to rewrite the chip.
“Okay, we have got to stop these monkeys,” Guy yells out. “They just keep coming!”
“I'm trying to create a hive mind so we don't have to cut them open one by one!” Says Mr. Terrific.
You look around. Despite the army of monkeys, this is the least weird incident this city has. There is minimal damage, considering the ringer aliens have put downtown Metropolis through. Maybe some broken street lights and windows. You know from your earpiece that assembly points and first responders are untouched.
“Anybody got an eye on my dad?”
You know, though, as soon as you ask the question, where he is. Only one building with this much computer power to control hundreds of monkeys.
“Guys, redirect everything to LuthorCorp's building. It is deserted,” You say through the earpiece.
A crackled reply of Guy's voice, “You're—break—ing up—under—stand—copy.”
Well shit.
The elevator you take plays a Beethoven tune. It's comical how pristine everything is, despite the dimensional rift that tore through the building a week ago. The lights flicker, but everything else seems to be in order.
It's not hard to find your dad. The back up command center is indicated in big block writing that can be seen in the arcade style building, on the top floor.
He's screaming at an engineer who looks like he's had enough verbal abuse for the day.
“Lex's second rate engineers can control these monkeys with a few lines of codes!” He yells, spraying spit all over the guy. “And you're telling me you can't even bring those monkeys here?”
Ah. That explains why the monkeys, while violent, move in a seemingly random pattern.
“Look, it's not that simple—someone's tampered with the chips and it's a lot more area to cover compared to the pocket dimension,” The engineer explains.
“I don't give a shit!” Your dad stomps his foot like a child throwing a tantrum. “Those are my money, my chips, my monkeys. You better get me back my investment—”
Kindest person Clark knows. Here we go.
“Or what?” You ask, announcing your presence, because you just have to. Tips of multiple guns held by multiple robot mercenaries are on you immediately. “Luthor is in prison, so you can't sue him. Sue the board? You are the board. So what are you trying to accomplish exactly?”
You dad straightens, but toning his suit jacket in an attempt to compose himself. “Is it so wrong to take back what's mine, daughter of mine?”
“Okay seriously, that was so cringe. This is why I never liked Lex,” You grimace. “This is animal cruelty, dude. Worst case scenario, terrorism!”
He scoffs. “Do you know how much money I put in this little project? Lex promised me war, but his obsession with that alien has always been a nuisance.”
You fake a shock. “Wow, really? No!”
“You know, both of you, running around like you know better than everyone else, but at the end of the day, you're both just a disappointment to me,” He muses. “At least he was useful, if not for a second.”
The words sting more than you'd like to admit. Maybe he still has some hold over you after all. All those years doing everything he wants, trying to gain his approval, all for nothing because you were not evil enough for him.
Enough is enough.
“If I was ever useful to you, I'd hand Superman a gun to shoot me myself,” You say.
Before you can say more, a girl stands up from her computer. “Sir, none of the chips are responding now.”
You let out a breath. Slowly, not giving out your win.
Your dad doesn't react in the way you expected him to. It's not big, explosive emotions. Just a resigned sigh before turning around, stepping into a private elevator.
“Where the fuck are you going?”
He tilts his head. “To protect more of my investments, of course.”
You notice it a second too late.
The elevator door closes, the floor number going down, down. The engineers inside the room look at each other, confused on what to do next. Then, one of the robot mercenaries steps up, presses a button on his wrist, and the ticking starts.
Oh shit.
You run to the floor to ceiling windows, but your attempt to break it is futile. Bulletproof glass. Obviously. You close your eyes and whisper.
“Clark?”
“Zen, where are you?” Comes his response. “I've been trying to reach you!”
Signal dampener. Of course. You dad is nothing if not careful.
“Listen, you're not going to make it in time. Clark, I—”
“No!” He yells. “No, I'm on my way!”
The beeping is faster. The engineers are scrambling towards the locked emergency exit staircase. A lot of them wait for the next elevator, jumping up and down in panic. Some hide underneath the table like it'll protect them.
“Clark, I—I need to tell you that—I—” Your voice cracks and you sigh, closing your eyes, bracing for impact. “Fuck it. You know.”
You hear the explosion before you feel anything else.
The glass breaks first, then silence. The ground shifts beneath you.
You open your eyes when you don't feel any pain. A red force field is the first thing you notice, protecting you from the blast, before the ground crumbles from your feet and you are free falling.
Gravity pulls you down by your chest, the opposing force pulls you just as hard by your stomach. You want to throw up.
The sky is red. And it's loud. So loud.
A T-Sphere flies close and you can hear Mr. Terrific telling you to grab onto it. It can't make you fly but it will slow you down.
Your fingers barely graze it. The red dissipates from your vision and you can feel nothing but a strong hold on your body.
You wrap your arm around his shoulders instinctually. Like the first time he ever took you flying.
You hold him closer.
“Clark says you are a genius,” Martha Kent said with a smile on her face. It was the first time you've ever visited Kent's farm. The first Christmas you didn't spend alone.
You shook your head. “No, I'm—I'm not like, metahuman level or anything.”
“She graduated high school at sixteen, ma!” Clark gushed. “She has an MD and a PhD!”
“Still working on that PhD,” You chuckled.
“A proper genius, then,” Jo Kent smiled. He turned to Clark. “Would ya help me shovel the barn, son?”
Clark smiled, because of course he did, before following his dad out the door.
You moved to the sink before Martha could beat you to it. You had already intruded enough, and you wanted to make yourself useful just a little bit. She still insisted on drying the plates with you.
“You know, Clark talks about you all the time when he calls, said you saved him multiple times,” Martha mused. “I'm surprised ya ain't together.”
You smiled faintly. “It's not like that, with Clark and I.”
“You don't see him that way?” You paused your movement. She noticed. “I apologize if I'm being too forward, honey.”
“No, no, it's okay,” You said with a shake of your head. “Clark is—Clark is like the sun. And I'm—I'm just a moon. Or Icarus. You know? Losing him would—it would devastate me.”
You had known you flew too close for a while. You had known he already burned you alive.
“Oh, look at ya, you're also a big ol’ softie for him, aren't ya?” her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “Love is always worth it honey, no matter how short it lived.”
You swore Clark's eyes shone brighter when he came back.
“What do you want for dinner?” You ask the second your feet touch the apartment floor. You shuffle to the kitchen, ignoring the adrenaline in your body and the hammering in your chest.
“Dinner?” Clark parrots, following you with his boots off. “You're asking me about dinner?”
“Uh, yes?” You say, discarding your dirty lab coat on the floor. Everything feels itchy and suffocating. You open the fridge to check for anything you can make, only to find a pack of Gatorade and some yogurt left. “Do you think the pilaf place is still open?”
“Come on, Zen,” He sighs, frustrated. “Stop, okay? Stop—”
“I'm hungry, aren't you?”
You don't notice how close had gotten, not until he spins you around and closes the fridge door when he does.
The first thing you see is the way dirt and dust cling to his suit. Then, you notice the scratches on his hands, slowly, going up to his neck, his face.
“Can you get rabies or is viral infection an exclusively human thing?”
Clark runs one hand through his face, keeping the other next to your shoulder against the fridge. “Zen, please.”
You swallow. “What?”
“You almost died!” He points out. “Some people would call that a traumatic experience.”
Your shoulders shake as you chuckle. “I didn't. Die, I mean. Still traumatic."
“But you could have,” he says, his voice catching. “Do you know how scared I was? I couldn't reach you for eight whole minutes and it feels like the sky just caved in. I tried to pick out your heartbeat but everything was so loud all at once.”
His eyes are shining, from the supernova in his irises and from unshed tears. There is a small pout to his lips, pressed together in frustration. The shake of his body is so small that you almost miss it.
“My—my dad had a signal jammer with him,” You explain weakly. “Then he rigged one of Luthor's robots into a self-destructing bomb—god, how are—how are the others?”
“The Justice Gang's got them,” he takes a deep breath. “Zen, why would you confront your father alone?”
Why did you?
“Because I didn't think he'll try to kill me, Clark, obviously.”
Clark moves away, just an inch back to try and control his frustration with you. “But he did, and—and I couldn't get to you in time. You do realize that, yeah? I couldn't get to you in time.”
“Mr. Terrific did.”
“If he had been a split second later—”
“But he hadn't!”
“I was supposed to protect you!”
“And I was supposed to have your back!” You match his raising voice, but the effort hurts your head instead. You let your body hinge on the fridge door for support. “But I didn't! And you almost died. I guess we are even.”
Clark sighs. “You were quarantined, for jury duty against the most prolific serial killers of our time. I don't hold that against you.”
“Doesn't matter,” You shake your head. “Doesn't matter now.”
He takes a deep breath. “I—I don't know what—I don't know what I would've done if I lost you.”
You take his right hand, balled into fist on his side, and press it to your heart. “Clark, Michael got to me in time. You got to me in time and I'm right—here. Alive.”
His breathing slows down and you watch as he blinks back the tears that threatened to spill out. His fingers curl around yours tighter, still feeling your beating heart.
Clark lifts them up to his lips, pressing it ever so gently against the back of your hand. Your heart flutters, like the chambers are leaking. His eyes never leave yours once.
“I didn't know,” He confesses after a beat.
You know what he is referring to. “How come?”
“I thought—I thought you and Mr. T—Michael are—and, and—you never said anything—” Clark's forehead falls into yours now, your noses brushing as light as feathers. “I—please, Zen.”
You don't know what he's asking for. You say it anyway.
“If I loved you less, Clark, I would've written sonnets and given you speeches,” You confess, your free hand moving to cup his face. Your thumb smooths out the dirt on his cheekbones. “But it chokes me from the inside out.”
So you let your love for him leak out of every tip of your fingers, every hellos and goodbyes and be-safes so said to him, every nicknames, every food you cooked, and everything you do.
He calls your name. Your real name. Not Zen, not doctor. You. Then he takes that leap with your hand in his and sends you both flying when his lips finally meet yours.
Not flying literally in your cramped kitchen, of course.
You find that kissing Clark Kent elicit the same sensation as free falling from the LuthorCorp building: your heart lurching as gravity pulls you down. This time though, the gravity pulls you towards him, if that's possible.
His lips are chapped from the fight, yours are probably too. Your hands trail from his shoulder to his neck, to his hair. Clark lifts you up and sits you on the kitchen counter.
“I don't want to lose you,” you whisper to his lips. “If we don't work out, when I inevitably fuck it all up—”
“You won't,” he captures your lips again. “I won't let you.”
You push him back just a fraction of an inch. “Promise me.”
“I promise,” He kisses you again, hands on your waist, on your back, he's everywhere. “I'm not letting you go. I'm yours, until the last star burns out, and even then.”
When you first moved back in, you were half surprised that Clark left the place almost exactly as it was. There were some trinkets, a cork board in the middle of the living room, and a pothos plant cascading from the bookshelf. But the rest was the same.
Especially your room.
The red nightlight you insist is helpful for your circadian rhythm, the dark blue paint on your walls littered with hand painted golden stars, and the trinkets lining your dresser, your vanity.
Clark kept it like a tomb. Like a shrine. Like he knows someday you'll be back. And you did. Everything is the same except that you woke up next to him, drowning in the lazy haze of this love.
You watch a reluctant Clark get ready for work, spending more time staring at your sheet-covered body instead of actually putting on clothes.
You stand on your knees on the bed, hands roaming his chest, his Kryptonian-toned stomach, before settling on his shoulders. You keep your face inches from his.
Clark's hands held you by your waist, tracing down to your ass, your thighs, anywhere he can reach.
“Don't you have work to go to, Newsies?” You tease.
“Don't you?” He says, voice deep and rough like he's restraining himself. His lips chase yours, but you don't let him have it.
“Mandatory week off, because y'know, I almost died.”
Clark groans, in pain. “Please don't remind me.”
Your fingers run through his curls, messing his already-messy bed head. Clark's forehead falls into yours, taking a deep breath to ingrain your scent to his brain for the whole day.
“I thought you wanted to drop by the Fortress to fix your suit, hm?” you remind him. “Just because you made the front page three times in a row, doesn't mean Perry will tolerate your tardiness.”
His nose traces your neck, your jaw, and you know he feels the shivers down your spine. “But I have a really pretty, super sexy girl on my bed whom I've been in love with for years.”
Kisses, all over the skin he can reach—shoulder, neck, jaw, cheek, and then your lips. This time, you let him, and you let yourself savour the feeling.
His hand moves to your backside, then, and you pull away.
“Clark,” You protest with a giggle when he keeps chasing your lips. “You're going to be so late!”
“What's new?” He captures your lips again, and again, and again.
Lois Lane
10.15am
Want to give an official statement on the monkey invasion?
Dr. Zen
10.30am
Anything for my favorite journalist
Don't tell Clark I said that
Lois Lane
10.35am
Too late. Now he's pouting
[Picture sent]
10.36am
Drop by?
Dr. Zen
10.36am
Absolutely
Lunch? Or brunch?
Lois Lane
10.40am
Anything I can eat while typing pls
“Jimmy, how the fuck did you get that shot?” You ask, rice platter in hand.
Jimmy is showing you the pictures he took during what they have fondly called the Monkey Invasion on the screen as he munches on the gyro you brought him.
“Climbed a lampost and I was just like, upside down for a second,” He explains like it's not a big deal. You share a look with Lois, who just shrugs. “Worth it though, you look hot.”
You were free falling from the sky with Superman on the corner, racing towards you.
“So a disgruntled LuthorCorp investor, you say?” Lois asks, eyes narrowing. She knows you're hiding something, and she's toeing your limit. “Do you know who?”
“I've never done business with LuthorCorp, Lois,” You answer easily. “Pull up their website, maybe then I can point him out from their Our Team page.”
“The company's website has been down since last week,” She points out like you don't know.
You shrug, “What a shame.”
His heavy footsteps alert you with his presence first. You turn your head to see Clark marching across the bullpen, phone in his ear. His tie is askew, two buttons of his shirt are undone, and the lapels of his oversized suit are folded wrong.
The alert on your smartwatch said a boat failed to anchor near Bakerline half an hour ago.
“Yeah, Ma—” You hear him say. Smile on his face when he sees you perched on his desk in a tight little skirt.
There is something blooming in his chest when he sees you. It's not the first time, seeing you like this with your skirts and in his work place, but it's the first time to see you when he can openly show his admiration. His affection.
The sunlight filters through the large window, creating a halo around your head. Your hair glistens, your smile glitters, as you greet him.
You wave your fingers and he forgets his ma on the other like is waiting for his answer until she calls his name again.
“I finally told her I love her—yes,” He stops at his desk, eyes not leaving you. His grin, if possible, gets wider. “She says hi—” a pause. His face is getting redder by the second. “Yeah—Ma—come on—last night, actually.”
Clark's hand finds your bare thigh, just above your knee. There isn't anything sexual about the gesture, just—reassuring. Like a greeting.
“Okay, I have to go back to work now—okay, I love you!” Clark slides his phone on his desk, bashfully peering at you from behind his glasses.
“Hi,” You say, grinning.
His face flushes again. “Hi.”
Clark takes a second to stare at you unabashedly, smile never wavering. You let him. He can't believe you're just letting him love you so openly like this.
Someone clears their throat. “Hi to you too, Kent.”
Clark pales at the sound of Perry, his editor. Lois tries to cover her snort but fails miserably. Jimmy uses his screen to cover his own laugh.
“Sir,” He straightens, before correcting himself. “Perry.”
Perry raises an eyebrow. “Unlike you to be behind to report on the action yesterday.”
“Miss—Miss Lane is the one covering yesterday's Monkey—Monkey Invasion, sir.”
Lois smiles when Perry's eyes move to her figure, hunched over her keyboard. She points to you. “We are actually in the middle of an interview with the woman of the hour.”
You jump from Clark's desk, extending your hand with a bright smile, introducing yourself. “—Head of Extraterrestrial Research and Development Lab of Holt Industries, sir.”
He takes your hand. “You're the one who stopped the monkeys?”
“With the help of the Justice Gang and Superman, of course,” You answer easily. “They all have this neuro-altering chip embedded in a part of their hippocampus, you see—so I had to perform a craniotomy—”
“I got it, I got it,” Perry then turns to Lois. “Can you get a quote from Superman?”
Lois looks at Clark, an eyebrow raised expectantly. Clark jumps at the realization that the attention is back on him.
He nods quickly. “Definitely. Superman will definitely give a quote.”
Perry's eyes narrowed at Clark's disheveled appearance, wanting to question it. Before he can, though, you offer him a take out bag.
“Can I interest you in some gyro, Mr. White?”
His attention is on you again, eyes going up and down your frame as if to assess you. Though still suspicious, he decides that falafels are a good compromise. “I'll take this. Get back to work!”
The four of you watch as Perry slams the door to his office, drawing his blinds down.
“I don't think it's possible to fall in love with you even more,” Clark says, breathless, still with that smile. His hands come up to your waist, but stays barely touching, as if he's waiting for your permission.
You turn to face him, hands reaching up to fix his shirt and his tie, watching him swallow. You smile sweetly, “I got your favorite platter with extra lamb and garlic mayo.”
Clark's smile is blinding, arms fully circling your waist now, tightening ever so slightly. “I stand corrected.”
“Look, not that we're not happy you guys finally pulled yourself together long enough to get together this time” Jimmy drawls. “But Zen, you need to approve at least one of these pictures.”
Clark frowns at Jimmy's screen, where the picture of you free falling is blown up. His arm tightens around your waist. “Not that.”
Jimmy groans. “Come on!”
“Do I have to be so—front and center?” You ask, tilting your head.
“Well yeah, you're the hero,” Lois chirps, turning her screen so you can see the working title of her article.
“Maybe lose the focus on me. I don't have a secret identity, Lois,” You scrunch your face. “What about the previous picture?”
Jimmy frowns, clicking for the previous picture. It's a monkey's grinning face, hanging upside down from a lampost.
“Yeah okay that works,” he shrugs, going back to his computer.
The click-clack of designer heels on the linoleum flooring cuts through the conversation in your little campfire. Cat Grant struts in with the dress you had for her, curls bouncing perfectly with every step.
“Maybe you can cover today's Superman safe on that boat, Clark,” She says, turning on the news. It plays out that Clark has to get underwater to stop the weirdly massive boat.
Clark sighs, disliking the idea that he has to actually go back to work instead of spending the day with you.
“And that is my cue, if we're finished here, Lois?” The journalist only hums as her fingers are typing furiously. You turn to Clark, “I'll see you at home?”
His grin turns dopey. “Yeah, I'll see you at home, darling.”
As you walk away from the bullpen, giving Cat faux kisses on her cheeks as a good bye, Jimmy's attention is still on Clark, whose attention is on your retreating figure. Clark's cheeks are red up to the tips of his ears, a smile on his lips as you walk away.
Jimmy turns to Lois and Cat. “I don't know if I find Pining Clark or Simp Clark more insufferable.”
Cat shrugs. “I don't care as long as I still get time with my favorite shopping partner.”
You are back at the Kent’s Farm, after Clark convinces you that his Ma wants to finally meet his girlfriend. Nevermind that you visit almost every year already, and that sometimes, she calls you just to talk.
Martha is as doting as ever, while Jonathan’s greeting hug lasts a little longer than usual. You swear there are some tears in his eyes, but you can’t prove anything.
It’s past midnight. You stay in the guest bedroom because Clark’s bed is not big enough for two people. It’s barely big enough to fit Clark.
Still, Clark sneaks into your room like a teenager, grinning sheepishly when he realizes he has woken you up.
“Whatcha doing, baby?” You ask, voice heavy with sleep.
“I miss you,” he says, climbing onto the double bed with you. You can hear his pout.
You move to make space, but it barely fits. Clark pulls you towards him so half your body is resting on his. “Can’t handle even one night without me, huh?”
“Now that I know how sleeping next to you feels like, I’m never going back,” he murmurs to your hair, his arm around you tightening.
Even after months, he still makes your heart flutter and your face hot. It’s unfair.
You both sit in the peaceful silence, only the sound of cicadas in the distance lulling you back to sleep. You feel his steady, thumping heartbeat underneath your hand and you take comfort in it.
Right before you doze off again, Clark nudges you.
“I’ve been wondering,” he whispers. “How come you didn’t know that I love you?”
“What do you mean?”
“If you had known that I love you too, would you have told me you love me sooner?”
“I don’t know, probably,” You answer, then retract. “Maybe not, but I would be less afraid if I had known.”
“So how come you didn’t know I love you?” He asks again. “You are the most brilliant person I know and I don’t think I was subtle either.”
You pull yourself away slightly, just enough to look at him. He obliges, ocean eyes meeting yours.
“Because you were, still are, my best friend, honey. We have each other’s back, we take care of each other. Romantic love has nothing to do with what we had. Romantic love has everything to do with me wanting to kiss you, though.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, one you can feel his stomach moving under your arm. Clark bends down and captures your lips with his. “Right again, my darling.”
johnny storm x cart girl!reader
content warnings: none! all fluff!
summary: johnny storm’s favorite way to relax? golf. his favorite part of golfing? the cart girl who pretends not to notice he only ever buys drinks from her
wc: 2.5k
masterlist.
It was 7:45 AM, and the clubhouse smelled like sunscreen, lemon cleaner, and gossip.
You stood at your usual prep station behind the bar, loading bottles of water into the cooler on your golf cart. The other cart girls were buzzing around the back room like bees in matching polos, filling chip baskets, adjusting visors, reapplying gloss.
“He’s coming today,” Riley whispered like it was top-secret intel.
You didn’t even look up. “Who?”
“Johnny Storm,” she hissed. “The Human Torch. Hero of New York. Celebrity heartthrob. Walking tan commercial.”
“And my future husband,” Megan added from the other side of the room, tying her ponytail with a pink scrunchie.
You snorted and shook your head, double-checking your cooler inventory. “You guys say that every time he shows up.”
“That’s because it’s true,” Riley said. “He’s hot. Like, literally. And he tips so well.”
“Ten bucks for a soda,” Megan sighed dreamily. “It’s better than what most people tip here and almost romantic.”
“Well,” Riley added, loading up her cart with suspicious speed, “We would know if he ever bought from anyone but you.”
That made you pause.
You turned. “Huh?”
“Come on, don’t play dumb.” Riley leaned on the cart’s edge with a teasing grin. “He only ever buys from you. Every time he comes in. Doesn’t matter if we’re closer, he waits. And then he pretends to be ‘so thirsty’ he needs, like, five drinks at once.”
You blinked. “Maybe he’s just…not thirsty when you drive by?”
They both gave you the flattest look imaginable.
“Girl.”
“I’m serious!” you laughed, pulling on your hat. “He’s nice. He tips generously. That’s it.”
“Sure,” Megan muttered. “And next you’ll tell us the sun rises because it feels like it.”
You climbed into your cart and turned the key, the motor humming to life beneath you.
“You’ll see,” Riley called as you started to drive off. “He’s gonna flirt with you so hard today.”
You waved it off, steering out toward the fairway.
“If he buys anything,” you called back over your shoulder, “it’s because he’s thirsty!”
You didn’t know it yet, but Johnny Storm had already been spotted in the parking lot, hair wind-blown and sunglasses too expensive, asking the front desk what time your shift started.
By the time you hit hole six, the sun was fully up and the course was starting to hum with early morning players. Golfers waved as you passed, some flagging you down for waters or sports drinks, others just offering a nod or a tip of their cap.
And then you spotted him.
Or rather, he spotted you.
Johnny Storm stood at the edge of the green, squinting toward your cart like it was a mirage. He was wearing a baby blue polo that somehow made him look like a country club ad and a celebrity at the same time. His sunglasses were too expensive, his smile too white, and his hair was just…unfair.
He raised both arms in the air like he was greeting a long-lost lover.
You snorted and pulled the cart to a stop beside him. “You act like you haven’t seen me in years.”
“It’s been twelve days,” he said gravely. “I counted. They were dark times.”
You arched an eyebrow. “Did you come here to play golf or flirt with the staff?”
“Yes.”
You rolled your eyes and reached for the cooler. “So. What’ll it be? Gatorade? Water? Lemonade? All of them, like last time?”
“Ooh, you remembered. I feel special.”
“You make it very hard to forget.”
He placed a hand over his heart. “Say more things like that. I want them printed on a t-shirt.”
You handed him a cold bottle and raised your palm expectantly. “Four dollars.”
He handed you a twenty.
You frowned. “Johnny.”
“Tip included,” he said with a grin. “Plus, emotional damages for how cute you look in that visor.”
You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
“Also,” he added, grabbing a second drink and holding it up like a prize, “I’ll take a backup hydration bottle. Just in case I pass out from, you know…looking at you too hard.”
“Right,” you deadpanned. “Medical emergency. Got it.”
“You’d rescue me, though,” he said, leaning against the cart like he was posing for a calendar. “Right? You’d swoop in and revive me with one of those little pink drinks you keep in the back.”
You gave him a long look. “You’ve never bought the pink drinks.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen you drinking one. And I trust your taste.”
You blinked.
He winked.
Before you could reply, one of his golf buddies called out from down the fairway. “Yo, Romeo! Are you buying drinks or writing sonnets?”
Johnny turned slightly and shouted back, “Both!”
Then he looked at you again, soft, almost sheepish now.
“Hey,” he said, lowering his voice just a touch. “Thanks for always stopping for me.”
You blinked, thrown off by the sudden sincerity. “Of course. It’s literally my job.”
“Yeah,” he said, still smiling. “But you make it feel like it’s just for me.”
And with that, he grabbed his drink, gave you one last grin, and jogged back toward his group—leaving you stunned, smiling, and not quite sure what just happened.
Back at the clubhouse, Riley and Megan were not going to let this go.
You rolled back into the clubhouse around ten, a little sun-dazed and already craving lunch. You parked the cart, unplugged your handheld payment reader, and headed inside with a quiet sigh—only to be met with the sound of whispered chaos.
“Oh my God, look at her. She’s smiling.”
“Did he say something? What did he say?”
“Tell me he finally gave you his number. Please. I need to live through you.”
You paused in the doorway.
Riley and Megan were standing near the ice machine, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, grinning like wolves in visors.
“What?” you asked warily.
“Don’t play innocent,” Megan said, grabbing a bottle of water and tossing it your way. “We saw the whole thing.”
“What are you talking about?”
“We may or may not have started staring from the window when we saw you pull up to hole six,” Riley said sweetly. “You two looked like you were filming a romance movie.”
“He was buying drinks,” you said flatly.
“He bought two drinks and gave you a twenty,” Megan pointed out. “And then lingered. There was leaning. There was eye contact.”
“There was a wink,” Riley added. “Like, a devastatingly flirty one.”
You tried not to smile. Failed.
“He’s just…like that,” you said, cracking open your water. “He flirts with everyone.”
They looked at you like you’d grown three heads.
“He does not flirt with everyone,” Riley said. “He flirts with you. Exclusively.”
“You know how many times I’ve circled past his group?” Megan added. “He doesn’t even blink at us. But the second he sees you, he turns into a lovesick boy with a credit card.”
You walked around the counter, pretending to reorganize the snack bins just to avoid their eyes.
“He’s nice,” you said, shrugging. “And maybe he’s just…really hydrated.”
“Oh my God,” Riley groaned, slumping onto a stool.
“You think he memorized your favorite drink because he’s dehydrated?” Megan asked.
You froze. “Wait, what?”
They both stared. “Oh my god, you didn’t even notice.”
“Notice what?”
“He only buys the pink lemonade ones when you’re drinking them,” Megan said, “Literally. Never before. We started tracking it.”
“There’s tracking?”
“Of course there's tracking.”
You dropped your face into your hands.
“You guys need hobbies.”
“You need to wake up girl,” Riley said. “Or maybe you just need a date with Johnny Storm, who is clearly in love with you.”
You shook your head and muttered, “He’s not.”
But the heat creeping up your neck said maybe, just maybe, you weren’t totally convinced anymore.
The next few days followed a pattern.
A stupid, suspicious pattern.
Johnny kept showing up to the course. Not every day, that’d be too obvious, but often enough that Riley and Megan kept score on the whiteboard in the breakroom. “Storm Watch: Day 3,” complete with tally marks and doodles of flames.
And every time he showed up? Same routine.
He waved at you, not anyone else. Waited for your cart to circle around. Ordered the same exact drink as whatever you were sipping.
Once, you were chewing watermelon gum and he pulled out the same kind from his pocket like it was totally normal.
“Wow,” you’d said, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re in sync,” he’d replied, grinning. “You’re the trendsetter. I’m just trying to keep up.”
You rolled your eyes. But your face had felt warm for the rest of the afternoon.
Today, it was even weirder.
You’d just pulled into hole fourteen when you spotted him, not at his usual tee spot, but loitering by the water cooler, clearly waiting.
You slowed the cart.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on hole fifteen?” you called out.
“Took a shortcut,” he said, stretching his arms overhead in a way that was definitely on purpose. “Was hoping to run into you.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You realize we sell drinks at every hole, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But they’re not your drinks.”
You blinked. “…That’s the dumbest line I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re smiling, though.”
You were. Damn him.
He leaned an elbow against the cart roof, getting a little too comfortable.
“You know,” he said, voice dipping just slightly, “you could let me take you out for a drink sometime.”
Your stomach did a weird little flip.
“Is that a line, or…?”
“It’s an invitation,” he said.
“Right,” you muttered, grabbing a water bottle from the cooler.
He took the bottle. His fingers brushed yours.
“Hydration and heartbreak prevention,” he said, grinning. “You saying yes might save me.”
You scoffed. “You’ll survive.”
“Maybe. Barely.”
He lingered for a second too long, then turned and jogged off, turning around twice to wave at you, like he couldn’t help himself.
Back at the clubhouse, you stared at the cooler for a long time.
You didn’t say anything.
But the next morning, you made sure to stock extra of his favorite drink. Just in case.
The course was quiet that morning.
Overcast skies meant fewer players, and the usual buzz of golf carts and distant cheers was replaced by birdsong and the occasional low rumble of thunder somewhere far off.
You were parked under a tree by the edge of hole nine, flipping through your phone and sipping a half-warm coffee, when footsteps approached from the fairway.
You looked up.
“You again,” you said, trying not to smile.
Johnny jogged over, hair pushed back by the wind, no sunglasses today. Just him, his face open, unguarded. His polo sleeves pushed up. A little less “celebrity,” a little more boy next door.
“You’re hiding,” he said, stopping at your cart.
“I’m on break.”
“Break from selling drinks or from being the most popular girl on the course?”
You rolled your eyes. “Still trying to flirt?”
“No,” he said, softer now. “Just…trying to talk to you.”
You paused.
He nodded toward the passenger seat. “Can I sit?”
You motioned for him to hop in.
He did, folding his arms loosely and leaning back. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked out at the trees, the pale gray clouds, the stillness of the course.
“This is my favorite part,” he said eventually. “When it’s quiet. Before it gets loud again.”
You glanced at him. “Didn’t take you as a ‘quiet moment’ type.”
He gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah, most people don’t. They think I like the flash, the attention. And I do. I mean…I did. Kind of still do.”
He picked at the label of the water bottle in his hands.
“But this place? It’s the only place I don’t have to be on.”
“You come here to hide?”
“Not hide. Just…breathe.”
You watched him for a second, heart slowing.
He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t trying. He was just being.
You took a sip of your coffee, watching a leaf swirl across the grass. “Why me?”
“What?”
“You could buy drinks from anyone. But you wait for me. Why?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Because you don’t treat me like a headline.”
That caught you off guard.
“You’re funny,” he continued. “You’re smart. You’re not trying to get anything out of me. You see me, and I think… I think I like the version of me you see. It feels better than the one everyone else wants.”
Your chest tightened.
He turned to look at you, eyes warm, a little nervous.
“And okay, yeah, you’re gorgeous, and I like your smile, and you say things that make me spiral in the best way, but it’s more than that. You make this place feel real. You make me feel real.”
The silence after was soft. Not awkward. Just heavy with truth.
You fiddled with the corner of a napkin in your lap.
“You’re not what I expected,” you murmured.
“Is that a good thing?”
You met his gaze.
“Yeah. I think it is.”
It happened at the end of your shift.
The sun was low, casting long shadows across the course. Your cooler was empty, your sleeves smelled like sunscreen and lemon Gatorade, and all you could think about was getting off your feet and into your car.
You were wheeling your cart back to the clubhouse when you saw him.
Johnny was leaning against one of the wooden posts near the exit path, hands in his pockets, still in that slightly rumpled polo like he hadn't moved since his last round.
You slowed the cart.
“You lose something?” you asked, teasing.
“Kinda,” he said, pushing off the post. “I was waiting for you.”
You stepped off the cart, tilting your head. “You already bought four drinks and a granola bar. You can’t possibly be that thirsty.”
He gave you a small smile, but it was different this time, nervous. Real.
“I figured if I waited until you were off-duty, you’d have to talk to me like a person and not a customer.”
“You’ve never acted like a customer,” you said softly.
“Yeah, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was kind of hoping you’d notice.”
He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to you.
A drink.
One of your pink lemonades.
Only this time, written across the label in marker were five simple words:
“Call me if you’re ready.”
And beneath it? His phone number.
You looked at it. Then at him.
“This is cute,” you said, smiling. “A little cheesy. But cute.”
“Yeah, well. I panicked. I was gonna say something cooler, but then I thought maybe you’d like this better.”
You ran your thumb over the writing.
“I do,” you said. “Like it better.”
He brightened.
“Does that mean…?”
“Yeah, Johnny. I think I’m finally thirsty.”
He broke into the biggest grin you’d ever seen, sun-drenched and boyish and so obviously relieved.
“Cool,” he said. “Cool cool cool. So I’ll, uh, be ready whenever you are. No pressure. I can wait. I’ve been waiting. Just didn’t want to keep showing up and not say something because my friend Ben said I was acting like a sap with no game and-”
You leaned up and kissed his cheek, warm and quick.
He froze mid-ramble.
You smirked. “Maybe bring me a drink next time.”
“You got it,” he breathed. “I’ll bring a whole cooler.”
Summary: On a fortuitous night, you meet two of the dumbest Avengers. One of them is red, white, and shit-for-brains. The other happens to be named near-identical to your dog. Chaos ensues.
Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes
–
Part I: What’s in a Name (That Which We Call a Bucky)
Your washing machine breaks, and Clark Kent—perfect, helpful, devastatingly kind Clark Kent—immediately offers his. The same Clark you've been pathetically avoiding because being around him hurts too much when you're this gone for him. But it's late, it's raining, and he's being so characteristically sweet about it that you can't say no. What could go wrong?
Your washing machine is dead. Not 'making a funny noise' dead, but utterly, stone-cold silent. You’d pressed the power button three times, a desperate little prayer on your lips, before accepting your fate. A mountain of laundry sat mockingly in its basket.
You’re staring into the abyss of your empty detergent bottle (another problem) when your phone buzzes on the counter.
Clark: Heard a suspicious amount of cursing coming from your apartment. Everything good?
Your fingers hover over the screen. It’s mortifying. You should just not answer. All your efforts to distance yourself from him, to slowly ease his warmth out of your life, will be for naught if he gets even the slightest sense of you needing help. Clark Kent doesn’t ignore cries for help. Clark Kent swoops in, with his gentle smile and strong, broad shoulders.
Clark Kent makes it hard for girls like you to get over him.
But if you don't answer, he’ll probably show up at your door to investigate, which would be much, much worse.
You: My washing machine has passed on to the great appliance store in the sky.
His reply is almost instantaneous. A small bubble with three dots appears and disappears before the message lands, and you hold your breath.
Clark: Oh no! Problem solved. My machine is your machine. Come on over whenever.
Shit.
You: Thanks, but it’s OK! I’ll just hit the laundromat. It’s late and I don’t want to bother you.
You’ve already put on your jacket and are hunting for your keys, a grim determination setting in. The walk will be cold. It will be annoying. But it will be blessedly, wonderfully Clark-free, so it’s a small sacrifice in the long run. Your thumb hesitates over the power switch on the machine. Might as well give it another shot. You jab the button with your index finger.
The phone screen in your hand lights up with his name.
He's speaking before you've finished getting the phone to your ear. "You don't honestly think I'm letting you go out at 11pm in the freezing rain to sit at some laundromat by yourself, do you?"
"I..." What were you going to say again? He's turning the concerned voice on and your stomach is flipping. "It’s not raining that much." It is. You can hear the distinct tink-tink-tink of water hitting your windowpane.
"Okay. It’s not freezing rain. But it’s still late. And that laundromat is… not the best. Lois was just telling me about an article she’s editing about how many streetlights are out on that block."
Lois.
The name lands like a small, smooth stone dropped into your stomach. Of course. Lois. Beautiful, brilliant Lois who makes Clark laugh in ways that light up his entire face, who writes the front-page articles and has the world at her fingertips. Who Clark is undoubtedly, irrefutably in love with, if you had to guess. Maybe they’re even together now. You've been so busy avoiding him that you wouldn't even know.
"I’m not gonna be able to focus on my work if I’m worried about you," he continues, blissfully unaware of the small, quiet devastation he just caused. He’s weaponized his own kindness, and it’s ruthlessly effective. "Please?"
You lean your forehead against the cool surface of your dead washing machine. He could convince the moon to come crashing down into Earth with just one well-placed "please", you think.
"You working on something?" you've moved on to stalling for time.
"Don't change the subject. Grab your laundry and get over here before I come drag you myself."
You're a goner. "Clark."
His laugh is bright and warm and reminds you of a lot of what you miss about him. "Come on," he coaxes, and the gentle, cajoling tone is going to make your heart leap straight out of your throat and into his hands. "I’ll order us some pizza. Or have you eaten already?"
"Don't get me pizza," you protest. "You need to work."
"I need to take a break anyway. I’ve been staring at this screen too long. I’ll be braindead if I don’t take a break soon."
"Then have a break. You don’t have to share it with me. I don't want to impose."
"Alright," he says, and you hear the telltale squeak of his desk chair as he gets to his feet. "Then I'm coming over and dragging you and your laundry across the hall."
"Clark!"
"Y/N!"
You laugh despite yourself, despite the way your stomach hurts. He's too good, too much, too kind. You can't keep up. "Okay, okay," you say, your shoulders slumping in defeat. "I'm on my way."
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
"Come in," he calls before you can knock. Of course he heard you coming.
You push the door open to find him tidying up the living room, shoving papers into neat stacks and fluffing couch cushions. He looks up when you enter, hair falling across his forehead in that way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.
"Sorry about the mess," he says, though his apartment is immaculate as always. "I wasn't expecting company."
He's wearing his flannel pajama pants and a soft t-shirt, glasses on. You'd have a hard time figuring out whether this or the suit is worse on your heart.
"You don't have to clean for me, Clark. It's just laundry."
"I know, but..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair. "I guess I wanted things to be nice. It's been a while since you've been over."
You feel a stab of guilt at that. You can't explain why you haven't been over in so long. You can't say, I have a ridiculous crush on you and need to save whatever is left of my dignity by keeping some distance between us.
So, you say, "Oh... yeah." Like an idiot.
"I missed seeing your face around."
"Did you?"
It's out before you can take it back. Clark freezes, then turns to look at you.
"Of course I did." There’s something like hurt behind his glasses. "Why would you say that?"
"No... I didn't mean..." you stammer. You want to go hide in a closet somewhere. "That sounded weird. I'm sorry. Just forget it."
Clark is still studying you with that puzzled, concerned look, but he eventually lets out a little huff of a laugh. "I’ll never understand how you don’t realize how much people like you around."
"Maybe I'm just fishing for compliments," you say in an attempt to play it off.
"Mm," he hums, taking your laundry basket with such ease one would think it was full of cotton balls instead of two weeks’ worth of dirty clothes. "Well, you're welcome to fish here anytime."
You follow him to the tiny (immaculately clean) laundry nook. It's not a room so much as a closet off the kitchen, with much less space than you need for a successful Clark Kent avoidance technique. If he stays to chat, you'll be standing no more than an arms' length apart at best, and you're not sure how that’s going to work for the duration of a full cycle.
"Have you eaten?" Clark asks again. He's leaning against the doorframe of the laundry nook, watching you with an easy sort of patience as you start to load the machine. The space feels impossibly small; you have to keep reminding your lungs how to do their job.
"Yeah," you lie, your voice tight as you untangle one of your t-shirts from a pair of jeans and pray that you didn't throw anything too embarrassing into this basket. "I ate."
"Liar. I can hear your stomach from here."
You freeze, utterly mortified. He’s just joking. Probably. "You cannot."
"I can," he insists, a grin spreading across his face that makes your stomach do a nervous little flip. "It’s telling me very sad stories about an empty fridge." He pushes off the doorframe, taking a single, deliberate step into the nook. The fluorescent bulb above flickers once, as if startled. He fills the space completely, blocking the light from the kitchen.
Your hands are suddenly clumsy. You become hyper-aware of the contents of your basket—the worn-out state of your favorite pajamas and, god forbid, your underwear. You try to discreetly bury a pair of frankly embarrassing floral underwear beneath a towel while he leans over your shoulder.
He’s reaching up, his body twisting around you to open a small cupboard above your head. The soft cotton of his t-shirt presses against your shoulder blade as he stretches, and a warm cloud of something clean—laundry soap and fresh air and just him—envelops you. You hold your breath, your universe shrinking to the inches between you, the faint scent of his shampoo, and the solid wall of his chest at your back.
He pulls back just as you think you might pass out, holding out a bottle of detergent. He’s completely, devastatingly oblivious to the five-alarm fire he just started in your nervous system, it seems. His expression is open, friendly, his gaze searching your face. You'd like to curl up inside the washing machine with your laundry and go on a spin cycle right now.
"Laundry detergent for your thoughts?" he asks, offering you the bottle like he hasn’t just driven every rational thought from your head.
You look down at the bottle, trying to remember how words work. "My thoughts are boring."
"That’s impossible." He unscrews the cap for you before passing it into your hands.
You take it, but he doesn't move back. You can see the flecks of green in his blue eyes behind his glasses.
You turn back to the washer, desperate for something to do with your hands and a way to escape his gaze, but your mind has gone completely, utterly blank. What comes after adding detergent? Cold wash? Warm wash? What exactly are you supposed to do with your arms, your legs, your shoulders? How do people even stand normally?
"Let me get that," he says, gently, quietly. His hand brushes yours as he takes the bottle, and he’s pouring the soap in, setting the bottle aside, twisting a dial. The washer rumbles to life, filling with water, and it feels like the air in the tiny nook is being sucked out through the pipes. He closes the lid and turns to look at you. He's so tall you have to tilt your head up to see his face properly.
"There," he says softly, like he's accomplished something monumental instead of just starting a load of laundry. "All set."
You nod, acutely aware that you should probably leave the nook now, give him space to escape back to his work. But your feet seem rooted to the spot, and Clark doesn't seem to be in any hurry to move either.
"So," he says, leaning back against the dryer, arms crossed. The position makes his t-shirt pull slightly across his chest, but at least now he's a full arms' length away from you. "What's really going on with you lately?"
Your heart stutters. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. The avoiding me thing. The way you practically sprint in the opposite direction when you see me in the hallway."
"I don't sprint."
"You do a very fast walk," he says with a small smile. "It's actually pretty impressive. I didn't know you could move that quickly."
Despite everything, you find yourself fighting back a laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"Maybe. But I'm also right." He tilts his head and looks at you for a long moment, like if he focuses hard enough, he can figure out what's going on inside your head without you having to say it out loud. It's an unsettling feeling, as if he might somehow peel back all the layers of your walls and see your pathetic little crush sitting at the core.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks.
Your heart sinks. "No, Clark, you haven't done anything wrong. Jesus." You run a hand over your face, letting out a sigh. "That's not—you're just—"
He's just perfect. He's kind and patient, he helps an elderly woman carry groceries back to her apartment every Thursday night. How do you tell someone like that that it feels like dying every time he mentions the coworker he's clearly in love with?
"We're good," you finish weakly. "You don't have anything to worry about."
He gives you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You just hate being around me?"
"Oh, yes. I hate you. Absolutely despise you," you joke.
"Hmm."
"Repulsed," you're holding back a laugh now. "Completely repulsed by your very—"
Clark takes another step forward, and whatever words were in your mouth evaporate. The laughter fizzles, turns less playful and more nervous as he invades your personal space like he's been doing your thoughts, 24/7, for maybe a solid year.
Playful Clark is almost worse than kind Clark. Kind Clark can fill your stomach with butterflies, sure. Kind Clark will stay on your mind, will fuel daydreams of late mornings and gentle hands, but you've built up a tolerance. Playful Clark—bold Clark—might actually shatter the very carefully maintained equilibrium you've worked so hard to create around your relationship with him.
"...face," you manage to squeak. He's much too close and much too comfortable, taller than you've ever really allowed yourself to consider.
What a terrifyingly wonderful feeling. If he leaned down, if you got on tiptoes...
"Clark," you say. The word is a weak warning.
He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker down to your lips and back up. You can feel the blush creeping over your cheeks. "What?"
"Clark."
He's smiling. "Y/N."
You can barely hear your own voice over the roar of your blood in your ears. "Are you just... gonna stand here?"
A small, breathy laugh escapes him. "I don't know. I'm enjoying the view."
"Clark."
His smile widens. "It's not my fault. You're cute when you're flustered."
"Stop. I'm not flustered."
He leans in a fraction closer. "So, I could get closer?"
He knows. He absolutely knows. And you know that he knows, and he's playing chicken. "Clark," you whisper, a final warning. If he gets any closer...
"Y/N." He mimics the tone of your voice. He's trying to tease, but he can't keep the soft, warm edges from creeping into it, the gentle affection he can never hide.
Clark Kent wants to kiss you, you think, distantly, as his nose brushes yours. As a big hand reaches up and cradles the back of your head.
"Is this okay?" he asks, breath fanning over your lips. And god, if that isn't just about the death of you.
The air has solidified, turned to glass, and it's lodged in your chest. "Clark."
"Can I?" His fingertips are warm against the base of your neck. The contact sends electricity racing up and down your spine. "I'm tired of waiting for you to catch on."
"Me catch on?! My biggest problem is that you, Clark Kent, you are the most—"
He's kissing you. He's laughing against your lips as he's kissing you, and your mind has been reduced to a collection of sparks going off in a vast expanse of darkness.
"You're so oblivious," he's saying, his lips moving against yours. "You're the most oblivious person on the planet. I swear."
"I'm oblivious? You're—"
But he's kissing you again—this time more insistent, less patient, a little bit needy and a whole lot of something you can't name, but you want to drown in. Any argument you might have made melts under his touch, vanishes like dew on a sunny morning and leaves nothing but this in its wake.
"I hope your machine is dead for good," he murmurs against your lips.
Your answer gets lost somewhere in the shape of his mouth and the warmth of his hands.
clark kent 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark Kent
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
notes – not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isn’t the coffee—it’s the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
“You looked like you had a long night.”
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around you, phones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voices, but your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You can’t place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. “Could be a delivery mistake.”
He snorts. “Right. And I’m dating Wonder Woman.”
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Who’s dating Wonder Woman?”
“Jimmy,” you and Jimmy say in unison.
“Right,” she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lid’s still warm.
You’re still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didn’t have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tie, striped, loud, and undeniably Clark, is halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like they’re trying to abandon ship.
He’s juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what you’re almost certain is the entire city council’s budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. It’s absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
“Clark, careful,” you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, he’s already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
“Morning sweetheart,” he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasn’t spoken yet today. “Sorry I’m late. Perry wanted the zoning report and the express line was… not express.”
You don’t answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your desk, specifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing.
Except… it’s not.
Then he clears his throat, loud and awkward, like he swallowed gravel, and shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. “New… uh, budget drafts,” he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. “I left the tag on that one by mistake—ignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.”
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. “…You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.”
He flashes you the smile again, crooked, a little boyish, like he still isn’t sure if he belongs here even after all this time. That’s always been the thing about Clark. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t strut. He’s got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And you’ve seen him work. He’s brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But it’s charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-he’s-nervous kind of way.
You like him. That’s… not the problem. The problem is….He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. “You good?”
“Yep.” He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. “Just, uh… recalibrating my ankles.”
Then he’s gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
You’re left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. There’s something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didn’t plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You don’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would be— Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. He’s the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though it’s technically not his beat.
He’s the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. He’s the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.
…Could he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You can’t see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone else’s. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesn’t really give you space to linger in your thoughts. Phones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. It’s chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as you’re skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typo’d into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, there’s another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.
You hadn’t published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting it. You thought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didn’t want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet… it had meant something. You’d loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which means…
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmy’s arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoever’s on the other end.
And then Clark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they won’t sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didn’t send it to copy at all. So… who the hell could’ve read it? How could they have seen it?
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. You’ve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You don’t say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroom’s background noise crescendos into something louder. Lois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. You’re not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
“It’s fluffy,” Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. “It doesn’t do anything. What’s the point of it, other than making people feel things?”
You open your mouth, just barely, ready to defend yourself even though it’s exhausting. You don’t get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
“I think it was insightful, actually,” he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. “And emotionally resonant.”
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. “Listen, Kent. No one asked you.”
Clark straightens his tie. “Well, maybe they should.”
Now everyone’s looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what he’s done and looks at his notebook like it’s suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now you’re wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didn’t make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But there’s something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone who’s spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didn’t just flip. You don’t look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
You’re just as tired, though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”
You pause. “Why?”
“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”
You snort before you can stop it.
It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.” The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. “Clark…”
“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coat, the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words, quiet, certain, and meant for you.
You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard, but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder, one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked, unsurprisingly, by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”
“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”
“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate. Usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on, half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell. There was a fireball.”
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”
“I just,” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.
“Sorry—sorry—hang on,” he lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaks, not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.
You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”
You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”
She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight. Not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.
He’d meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up, right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.
-
You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.
You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know, it stuck with me.”
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”
“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”
“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean, it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.
You don’t call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day. He could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way. Shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them, fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.
You wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.
It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them, like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air, fragile yet charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”
And he just smiles, soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”
You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again. Careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence, no flourish, no punctuation.
“Then tell me in person.”
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes, unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.
But you know he’ll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour, just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is, elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.
But still, you dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.
It’s also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something, like it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And then—nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing, ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture. Chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you don’t see is the hallway, just twenty feet away, where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t—
But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”
The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.
-
What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way, coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp, not even from this universe, tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First it’s the downed power lines sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges, someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.
Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.
It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.
You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
You’ve heard it before, dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But that’s not possible. Because Superman is, well, Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.
Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
…Sort of.
-
You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it, frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand, one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.
“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”
“I said I’m fine, Clark.”
You hate the way his face flickers at that. Hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon, half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
“He called me sweetheart.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”
“No. Superman.”
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”
Lois makes a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”
You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”
“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality, latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one, sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.
You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer?
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.
“Got your quote. Sending now.”
“Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.”
“Hope your meeting went okay.”
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say, but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning, just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”
You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But then Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”
Silence follows. Not because of the volume. He wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush, but crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over, but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.
The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment, those words, it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases he’s used before.
“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.”
“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”
And now:
“Her work actually matters.”
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing, always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it?
You can’t stop.
-
It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes, most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed, but written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.
“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.”
“I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note, the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.
It’s exact.
You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”
You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea, just the way you like it, no comment, and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.
You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard, low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”
You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.
There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehow, somehow, he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum, sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar, but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.
You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”
Clark startles. Not dramatically, just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I-what?”
You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
“I…” he tries again, softer now, “I didn’t think you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”
He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”
You cross your arms, not out of anger, but more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”
“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”
You watch him. Wait.
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him, soft, clumsy, brilliant, real, would somehow undo the magic.
“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”
He blinks.
You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”
Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”
Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”
“But?” you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches, not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him, really taking him in. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”
Clark’s eyes flicker, hope and heartbreak all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like that, close, but not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”
You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again, quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois? Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.
“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.
You blink. “What?”
“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”
You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”
“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”
You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”
You roll your eyes. “Lois…”
“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”
Your stomach flips.
“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”
You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”
“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”
You snort. “So your type.”
“Exactly,” she lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”
You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.
When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift. To mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess, fingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there, still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook, you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”
He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”
You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”
Clark nods, but you’re not finished.
“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”
You meet his eyes, clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then, carefully, slowly, you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair, fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
“Clark,” but you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up, one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head, and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap, into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”
You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat, you finally believe it.
You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him, all of him, underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to,” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
“You’re so…” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander, curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”
“I kept every one,” you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now, he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.
Clark kisses you again, soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that, barely audible, but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.
“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”
He groans. “Don’t say that. I’ll lose sleep.”
You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it and presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell, maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once, because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again, this time fuller, deeper, your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.
It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.
You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead, bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is, you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk, glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking, lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away, bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should, just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist, and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you, ready to jump too.
“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here, beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water, the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches, not your hands, but your face, as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. “What?”
He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”
But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. “Late night.”
“Editing from home?”
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself, like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.
“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.
He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”
You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes, not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely, you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely, but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible, but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quieted, after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens, the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind, just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time, less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.
“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.”
—C.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you, this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this, this steady climb into something real, than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.
-
You’re not official.
Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now, something solid and golden and real in the space between words.
It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours, just barely, and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.
You don’t ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The next kiss happens on your couch.
You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you once, soft and slow, and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
“I-I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to…. something came up. It’s—”
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.
“But…”
“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”
And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.
You never ask. You don’t need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”
You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”
You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just… there.
It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.
He hasn’t said much since dinner, just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this, aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway, pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotional—physical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
“Clark?”
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them, not from fear. From restraint.
“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. “You?”
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”
You pull back just enough to look at him.
He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles, like he can will the oddness away, and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesn’t want to stop.
You don’t want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores like he’s memorizing, not taking.
“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. “Yes.”
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again, warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”
You shudder.
His hands move again, down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
“Clark…”
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”
You do.
You let him wreck you.
He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”
You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like that, panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.
“Come here,” you whisper.
He kisses you then, deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”
You blink. “Clark, I—”
He kisses you again, soft, lingering.
“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”
Then he lifts you again, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile, but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
“Clark!”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”
And he does.
His mouth finds you again, warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then, without warning, he slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth, curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
“Clark! God, I-I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”
By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless, dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you then, like he needs to be closer, tells you this isn’t over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”
Your hips answer for you, tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up, his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
“God, Clark…”
“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him, takes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
“You okay?”
“Y-yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel… Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”
You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again, and again, and again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
“Oh my god, sweetheart, don’t do that. I’m gonna—fuck—”
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night…every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps, hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
“Clark’”
“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby. So fuckin’ tight…can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you, it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Clark, don’t stop!”
“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck.”
You can feel him getting close, the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.
And you’re almost there too.
You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again, pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward again, harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
“Fuck…fuck. I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to. Baby I can’t—hold back.”
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before, flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.
Clark’s back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
“I can’t! I can’t… Clark!”
“You can,” he pants. “Please, please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you. I can feel it.”
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him, clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you. And he loses it.
Clark curses, actually curses, and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat, not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.
Not like it should be.
You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie there, chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”
You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”
Clark freezes. “…Did I?”
You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”
His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”
You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightly and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
“Morning,” he says without turning.
You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”
“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towel and notice it’s already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”
“Figured?” you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”
You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes, like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didn’t even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”
“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”
He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.
-
And still… you don’t say it.
You don’t ask.
Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly, you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
He’s protecting something.
And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.
You haven’t said it yet, not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid, that’s where everything soft lives.
And you’re not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
It’s subtle at first, just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera jolts and then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.
He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding, from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.
“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”
You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.
That’s your boyfriend.
That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.
He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.
He’s not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around you, half-aware, half-horrified, but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feed, something massive slamming him into the pavement, and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You don’t know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But still, your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving. Like someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen: his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”
“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”
“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing…what even was that?”
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
He’s hurt.
And he’s still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You can’t just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”
Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”
“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”
Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”
“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”
Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”
You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream, tattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders, Hawkgirl, has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And then…
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
He’s hurt.
He’s so clearly hurt.
And even through all of it, through the dirt and blood and pain, he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”
His voice is steady, but you can hear it now. The strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”
Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
You’re not writing.
You’re just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than that…he looks like Clark.
And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.
You nod. “Are you?”
He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”
It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
I’m not leaving.
You don’t have to say it.
When he flies away, slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs, it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”
Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar, anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.
But the second you’re alone?
You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency, the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.
“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”
He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”
You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes.
A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”
That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile, the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.
“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”
Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.
When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him softly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swell, hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation, but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.
You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
“Are you scared?” he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”
He kisses you again. Slow this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches yo, thorough, patient, hungry, it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he falters, when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast, you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”
Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this began, you both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended, his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.
You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin, belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”
“You’re bulletproof.”
“I get cold emotionally.”
You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”
“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”
You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast, like way too fast, and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”
“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”
“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”
You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced, just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.
“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”
“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”
“I’m saying you’re better.”
He blinks. And then, just like that, he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger, but the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.
“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
“Soon.”
“You’ll come back?”
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. “Every time.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window. less streak of light, more quiet parting, you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.”
—C.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door, and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
-
tags: @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<— it wouldn’t let me tag some blogs I’m so sorry!!)
You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.
And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.
He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”
“It’s bl– bleeding.”
“I know.”
You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.
You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”
You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.
The photos of him online don’t do him justice.
“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”
“You– you’re real help.”
He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”
You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”
His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.
“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”
“You are?”
“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”
“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”
“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.
You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”
“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”
His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.
“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”
Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.
“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”
“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”
Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.
—
A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.
“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”
“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”
“It’s still a wound.”
“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”
Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.
“It looked awful, it still does.”
“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”
“Very unfortunate.”
You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”
“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”
“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”
He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”
“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”
“Please?”
He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.
You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.
“I’m sick of working already,” you say.
“Then let’s go home.”
“Clark. I’m being conversational.”
“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.
“Have you been working out?”
“Can you stop?”
“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”
Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.
—
You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.
The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.
The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“You were?” you ask.
“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”
His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”
You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”
“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.
“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.
His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.
“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.
“You seem a little flustered, is all.”
“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”
“You’ve never met a metahuman?”
“No, never.”
“We’re just like everybody else.”
You laugh.
“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”
You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.
“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.
“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”
“Why is he looking for his father?”
“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”
“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”
“You can borrow my copy.”
Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”
“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”
He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.
Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.
“Sure. Well, take your time.”
—
How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?
You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.
You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.
You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.
“Hey.”
You lift your head.
Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s really not.”
“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”
“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.
Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.
“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.
“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.
You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.
“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”
“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”
Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”
“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”
“You do?”
You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.
“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.
His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”
“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”
“I’m sorry–”
“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”
Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”
You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”
“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”
“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”
“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”
“Well, she’s a girl.”
“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”
He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.
“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”
Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.
“Not that cold,” you murmur.
“I never realised you were such a liar.”
“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”
He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”
—
“So, this book–”
You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.
Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.
“Fuck,” you complain.
“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”
“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.
“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”
“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”
“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”
“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”
“You cook.”
You blink. “You googled me?”
“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”
“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”
“Is that true?”
You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.
Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.
Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.
“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.
“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”
Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.
“Where are we–”
The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.
The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.
There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—
“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.
“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”
“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”
“You aren’t heavy.”
You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”
“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”
“I don’t remember much of it.”
“That’s okay. I do.”
You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.
“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”
You glance up to find him still staring at you.
The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.
“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.
“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.
“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”
Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”
“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”
“You’re not making this any easier for me.”
You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.
“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.
Superman presses his nose to your cheek.
“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.
He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.
“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.
—
A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.
He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.
“What’s wrong with the AC?”
“It’s leaking.”
“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.
“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.
He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”
“I can be funny.”
“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”
“Now it’s not natural, though.”
“Please?”
“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”
He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.
There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.
You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.
“Adorable.”
You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.
“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”
And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.
Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”
“I’m not that cold.”
“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”
“I don’t act like that.”
“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”
You lean on him.
Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.
And you think, I know you.
But you don’t know why.
—
Clark can't believe this is happening again.
He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.
And lately.
Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.
Or that’s what he’d like to think.
Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.
He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.
Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.
It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.
The light goes out.
It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.
He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.
It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.
Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.
—
What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.
The dark makes it hard to breathe.
You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.
You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?
You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs
You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?
You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?
He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.
And Clark Kent is out there all alone.
You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.
He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.
—
Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.
He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.
He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.
“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.
His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.
“Ow!”
Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.
“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”
Krypto nibbles his shoulder.
Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.
He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.
“Krypto, stay.”
Krypto tilts his white blurry head.
“You’re not helping.”
Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.
Krypto stays down, for now.
Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.
“Clark?”
He stops dead in the sky.
“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”
He says your name.
“Clark? I’m here!”
Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.
He has to keep you safe.
—
You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.
—
There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.
What did it say? you’d asked.
To be good.
You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.
Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.
Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.
You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.
After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.
“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”
“Uh–”
Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”
You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.
“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”
“No,” you breathe.
“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”
“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.
It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.
Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”
You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.
Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.
“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.
“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.
You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.
“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.
He doesn’t rush you.
You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.
“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.
“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.
“But you know it all.”
“I know you,” he agrees.
“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”
“Do you even remember?” he asks.
Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.
In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But–”
“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”
“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.
“Yeah, I am.”
Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.
“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”
“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.
“I was awake for breakfast?”
“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”
You flush. “I’m fine.”
Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.
“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”
“I don’t feel very hungry.”
“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”
You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.
“Oh.”
The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.
“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.
“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”
You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”
“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”
“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”
He laughs wetly.
“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”
Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.
“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”
“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.
“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”
His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.
Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.
“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.
“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.
You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”
He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.
“You’re due some hazing.”
“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”
He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
Only a little.
—
Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.
And Superman?
He’d been courting you.
The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.
“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.
“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”
“Sorry?”
“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”
You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”
“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.
“It was really going to be a kiss?”
He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”
“You know I do.”
“So kiss me.”
He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.
“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.
He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.
There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.
Clark has repaid you in kind.
Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?
How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.
I want you to know.
Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.
Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.
You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.
Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.
“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”
You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”
“The Ocean? You never finished it.”
“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”
Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!
You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good.
And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next.
He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.”
“It’s bl– bleeding.”
“I know.”
You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.
You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.”
You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him.
The photos of him online don’t do him justice.
“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.”
“You– you’re real help.”
He holds your gaze. “Yeah?”
You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.”
His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently.
“I’m a big fan of– of yours.”
“You are?”
“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…”
“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.”
“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…”
“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm.
You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.”
“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.”
His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.
“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.”
Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse.
“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.”
“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.”
Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy.
—
A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet.
“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.”
“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”
“It’s still a wound.”
“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.”
Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.
“It looked awful, it still does.”
“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”
“Very unfortunate.”
You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.”
“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.”
“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.”
He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.”
“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.”
“Please?”
He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return.
You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it.
“I’m sick of working already,” you say.
“Then let’s go home.”
“Clark. I’m being conversational.”
“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy.
“Have you been working out?”
“Can you stop?”
“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”
Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day.
—
You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here.
The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all.
The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“You were?” you ask.
“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”
You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?”
His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?”
You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.”
“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid.
“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why of course not?”
Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison.
His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks.
“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt.
“You seem a little flustered, is all.”
“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.”
“You’ve never met a metahuman?”
“No, never.”
“We’re just like everybody else.”
You laugh.
“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.”
“Sorry.”
“Now what do you have to be sorry for?”
You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.
“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap.
“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,”
“Why is he looking for his father?”
“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”
“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.”
“You can borrow my copy.”
Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?”
“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.”
He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility.
Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply.
“Sure. Well, take your time.”
—
How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?
You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be.
You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge.
You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back.
“Hey.”
You lift your head.
Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry.
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“It’s really not.”
“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.”
“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel.
Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.
“Isn’t that cold?” you ask.
“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.
You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.
“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”
“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.”
Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?”
“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.”
“You do?”
You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands.
“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say.
His fingers dust your elbow. “What?”
“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?”
“I’m sorry–”
“I’m not. I’m happy for you.”
Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.”
You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.”
“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.”
“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”
“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”
“Well, she’s a girl.”
“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.”
He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.
“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”
Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do.
“Not that cold,” you murmur.
“I never realised you were such a liar.”
“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.”
He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”
—
“So, this book–”
You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands.
Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby.
“Fuck,” you complain.
“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?”
“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag.
“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.”
“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?”
“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?”
“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.”
“You cook.”
You blink. “You googled me?”
“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”
“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.”
“Is that true?”
You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him.
Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asks.
Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you.
“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears.
“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”
Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight.
“Where are we–”
The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.
The sky is more than blue when you’re in it.
There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—
“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours.
“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.”
“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.”
“You aren’t heavy.”
You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!”
“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”
“I don’t remember much of it.”
“That’s okay. I do.”
You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall.
“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground.
“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.”
You glance up to find him still staring at you.
The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close.
“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say.
“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap.
“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.”
Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”
“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.”
“You’re not making this any easier for me.”
You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms.
“I’m not a very easy person,” you say.
Superman presses his nose to your cheek.
“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.
He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.
“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.
—
A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you.
He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say.
“What’s wrong with the AC?”
“It’s leaking.”
“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket.
“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead.
He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”
“I can be funny.”
“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”
“Now it’s not natural, though.”
“Please?”
“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.”
He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path.
There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’.
You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased.
“Adorable.”
You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease.
“Do you not want me to be nice to you?”
And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together.
Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”
“I’m not that cold.”
“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”
“I don’t act like that.”
“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.”
You lean on him.
Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.
And you think, I know you.
But you don’t know why.
—
Clark can't believe this is happening again.
He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life.
And lately.
Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth.
Or that’s what he’d like to think.
Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome.
He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this.
Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.
It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins.
The light goes out.
It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come.
He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth.
It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey.
Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.
—
What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke.
The dark makes it hard to breathe.
You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.
You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast?
You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs
You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark?
You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you?
He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground.
And Clark Kent is out there all alone.
You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on.
He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone.
—
Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust.
He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too.
He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly.
“Krypto?” he asks into the smog.
His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise.
“Ow!”
Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws.
“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.”
Krypto nibbles his shoulder.
Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it.
He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them.
“Krypto, stay.”
Krypto tilts his white blurry head.
“You’re not helping.”
Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air.
Krypto stays down, for now.
Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.
“Clark?”
He stops dead in the sky.
“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”
He says your name.
“Clark? I’m here!”
Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe.
He has to keep you safe.
—
You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.
—
There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.
What did it say? you’d asked.
To be good.
You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time.
Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain.
Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this.
You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit.
After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision.
“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.”
“Uh–”
Clark makes a sound. “Oh.”
You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you.
“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.”
“No,” you breathe.
“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.”
“Clark, don’t go,” you whine.
It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head.
Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.”
You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again.
Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work.
“You read The Ocean,” you whisper.
“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw.
You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy.
“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret.
He doesn’t rush you.
You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck.
“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly.
“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy.
“But you know it all.”
“I know you,” he agrees.
“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.”
“Do you even remember?” he asks.
Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs.
In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But–”
“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.”
“You really are… him?” you ask weakly.
“Yeah, I am.”
Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door.
“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?”
“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you.
“I was awake for breakfast?”
“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.”
You flush. “I’m fine.”
Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart.
“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!”
“I don’t feel very hungry.”
“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.”
You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted.
“Oh.”
The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions.
“What’s wrong with me?” you ask.
“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.”
You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”
“I didn’t get to you fast enough.”
“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.”
He laughs wetly.
“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.”
Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel.
“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.”
“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers.
“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.”
His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is.
Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand.
“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally.
“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says.
You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.”
He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks.
“You’re due some hazing.”
“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks.
You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.”
He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.”
Only a little.
—
Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman.
And Superman?
He’d been courting you.
The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously.
“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious.
“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.”
“Sorry?”
“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.”
You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?”
“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly.
“It was really going to be a kiss?”
He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises.
“Prove it.”
“What?”
It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?”
“You know I do.”
“So kiss me.”
He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes.
“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff.
He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says.
There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously.
Clark has repaid you in kind.
Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you?
How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.
I want you to know.
Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better.
Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.
You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp.
Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you.
“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?”
You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?”
“The Ocean? You never finished it.”
“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.”
Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!
like you a little @icedamericanaur - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
