:3

[jayneluvsu]

𝑗𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑦𝑠 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜

• 𝑗𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑗𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒, 𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑦, 𝑖 𝑔𝑜 𝑏𝑦 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 :), 19, 𝑝𝑢𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑛, 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟, 𝑡𝑜𝑗𝑖𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑙𝑙

𝑓𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑚𝑠 𝑖’𝑚 𝑖𝑛

• 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑗𝑗𝑘, 𝑚ℎ𝑎, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒, 𝑎𝑡𝑠𝑣, 𝑖𝑡𝑠𝑣, 𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑛, 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑤𝑒𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑑𝑎𝑦, 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜 𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑠, 𝑗𝑒𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑓𝑒𝑟’𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑟𝑦, 𝑎𝑣𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑟, 𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑦, 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛 + 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 :)

𝑗𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑠

• ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑖 𝑠𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑝𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑎 𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔! 𝑠𝑜 𝑖 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑢 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑡 𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑢𝑡𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑖 𝑑𝑜. 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑓 𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑡 𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡 𝑏𝑒 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑠𝑘 <3

[revolvingsaturn]

shut up & drive!

𝜗𝜚 Satoru Gojo is Ferarri’s star driver- blue eyes, sharp turns, even sharper cocky smiles. Singapore is thrumming with anticipation as this year’s final race commences; everybody from the pretty blonde interviewer to the mechanics are just dying for a piece of Gojo’s attention. Except for you- the secret girlfriend he just can’t seem to get enough of. What a surprise!

content: F1 au + references, secret relationships, plot, lingerie, tension, fingering, blowjobs, face fucking, cocky Gojo, praise, filthy smut, thigh riding, kissing/making out, men whimpering, crying, overstimulation, making it fit, running from it, manhandling, cumming prematurely, creampies, pussydrunk Gojo, cockdrunk reader, happy trails, missionary, prone bone, headlocks, biceps, mating presses, tummy bulges, cumflation..?, proposals, pregnancy, fluff, he’s in loveee, cameos from Yuki + Ijichi, happy ending <3

a/n: for my lovely irl @p3stop3sta ‘s birthday, who also helped with alllll the F1 research in this!

wc: 6.0k

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ೃ࿔*:･

The spectator stands roar in unison with the engines of the cars on the track, everything blurring into one big, exciting, hectic cacophony of sound and colour. Singapore is buzzing in rhythmic synchronicity with your heart- and your eyes, squinting up to the live updates on the screen attached to the wall of the garage.

“Well, he did it in Monaco, he did it in Miami- the question is,” the faceless announcer says, speaker cutting through the crowd, “can Satoru Gojo do it here? We’re 40 laps into 62, and so far he’s been holding the lead-“

From the view on the television, top-down across the track as cars spin through, the track looks like a little pencil scribble slicing through the smooth paper of the city- grey tarmac bordered by immaculate paving and picturesque greenery. The garage smells of petroleum and heat.

Nobody here knows who you are. As far as they’re concerned, the lanyard around your neck is for the media. To your left stands a real interviewer, a pretty woman with expensive looking sunglasses and perfect blonde hair, eyes squinting as she notes something down on her equally expensive phone.

If only they knew. The thought amuses you slightly in the same way it does every time you recline back against Gojo’s chest in your shared bed, laughing under your breath as you watch an interview on the flatscreen.

“So,” the interviewer had asked a year ago, microphone bobbing into view, “how do you feel to be returning home after this? And, more importantly… will anybody else be joining you this year?”

Gojo had just winked, snowy hair messy from the helmet now held under his arm. “Well, I can neither confirm nor deny.”

The tabloids had exploded- hundreds of articles, threads, online fangirls scrutinising his behaviour down to the very millisecond, his words splashed glossily across blogs and social media. Being secret wasn’t all bad, you supposed- no paparazzi, no pressure, but this: this was the part you hated.

Pretending to be detached, like your only job is to stand in this garage and be polite to the mechanics; like you don’t know how Gojo’s breathing sounds in the dead of night, how he prefers sweet over savoury, how he lovesssss to spread your thighs open after a race and-

“Back up, people! Tyre change-“ a mechanic yells, not sparing you a glance as he assumes his practiced squatting position on the track, helmet reflecting the artificial light inside the garage.

“Okay-“

You don’t even get to look at him- it’s over so fast, Gojo can’t have been stationary for more than two seconds. Bolts whirring as his tyres are changed, cameras zooming in to catch the coordination of the team as they move in almost unreal fluidity. Somewhere in the background, you make a nervous appearance that nobody will pay attention to.

“Lap 50, and things are certainly heating up for Satoru Gojo, folks- especially with McLaren’s Toji Fushiguro catching up- it can’t be more than a few feet between them as we head into lap 51, Ferrari had better hope their star driver can handle the heat-!”

You bite your lip anxiously; the tangy, metallic taste of blood pools nervously in your mouth as the bright screen signifies lap 53, then 54. Steady intakes of breath fill your lungs, forcing your thrumming body to stay put; you feel sick with anticipation, bile rising unwelcome in your throat. Eyes, burning from lack of blinking, swivel to catch the erratic movements of the McLaren car bordering Gojo's- and the way it catches nastily on a turn, swerving messily.

"Yessss..." Someone behind you hisses under their breath, hums of agreement and a few nods smattering afterwards. Racers and their determination stretches on, the Singaporean heat dulled by the time- darkness sweeps across the city, but the floodlights on the track keep you awake. So do the commentators.

"Can you believe it?" One exclaims, sharp feedback cutting through the anxiety swirling in the tiny, doubtful part of you that feels like crying every time Gojo comes too close to a bend. It's the part of you that, selfishly, sometimes wishes he'd just make you public so you wouldn't have to keep doing this- keep putting up with the literal supermodels requesting to message him on social media, or the slights made by the mechanics who, really, don't know why you're here.

"I know!" The second commentator declares, "a shockingly sloppy piece of driving there, I'm sure Toji Fushiguro is just kicking himself for that little mishap, surely it just cost him the title? And after his success earlier this season, too-"

The particles, aligned buzzingly on the TV to create a crystal-clear picture of your boyfriend swerving his way around the track, signify lap 58, 59, then 60 and then-

“It’s the penultimate lap- but can Satoru Gojo maintain his lead as he hits this last sector? With McLaren trailing behind, Toji Fushiguro should no longer be an issue- but, Mercedes’ Suguru Geto could be.”

The tension of the crowd is a living thing, beating inside you and every other spectator. Pulsing, enveloping- shades and hues of anticipation bubbling up in veins, being shouted supportively from mouths hungry for a result. As your heart pounds in your chest, something comforting and domestic flutters in your tightening ribcage, like a bead of early, perfect spring sunlight cutting through a thunderstorm.

It doesn't matter if he loses. Not to you, anyway- he'll go home defeated, but he'll go home hand in hand with you. Back to your shared bed, where he can wrap his long arms around your soft body and just be Satoru for once.

“Can he do it?” The second announcer shouts animatedly into his microphone, “can Satoru Gojo pull this off for Ferrari, and become this year’s Formula One champion- there they go!”

Well, actually…

You change your mind. You do want him to win. You want him to win so badly it physically hurts- nervousness clawing, dragging acidity up your throat. Every cloying, humming fibre of your body thrums as your eyes pinpoint his car on the screen above.

There’s a sudden noise of screeching as Geto drives awfully close, awfully fast to Gojo’s car- and he wobbles, just for a second, just enough for Geto to nudge the lead.

Shocked gasps tear themselves involuntarily from the taut throats of everybody in the garage- the crowd too; the tension is so thick you can physically feel it compressing itself down on you like gravity, tethering you in place. You can hardly bear it- body torn between staring unblinkingly at the screen, lungs and heart working overtime as every tiny swerve makes your stomach clench, or stepping outside to breathe.

You feel like screaming.

“What a turn of events! Well, my money was on Ferrari this time around, but could Mercedes pull this out of the bag? Just look at the sheer manoeuvring it’s taking Satoru Gojo to even stay close to his opponent!”

“Yep, I agree-“ the second announcer is saying, words muffled as they float treacherously through into your ears. “Everybody expected Gojo to pull this one off, but from the way he’s dragging behind you just have to wonder if maybe he’s burning out? And again- oh! Oh, look at that- they’re neck and neck again folks! It’s all to play for!”

You gasp in collective with the crowd. Somebody in the garage groans out a curse as they turn the corner. Everybody- you, the mechanics, the journalist- is fixated totally on the screen; uncountable pairs of eyes all around the world zero in on the two cars, and Singapore seems to hold its breath.

The crowd pauses in one unified moment, the roar of the engines deafening as every sense is amplified by adrenaline. The cars are tight, edging forwards with every second; inside, Gojo’s blue eyes squint at the horizon, drowning out the rushing in his ears as the g-force hits him.

He wants this. He wants this more than Suguru Geto a few feet away does. He wants this more than anybody; he needs to hold that trophy, for all the relentless training and late nights and dizzying fumes and for you.

For you, stood alone in the garage. For you, who's been there for him in intimate, close, private ways nobody else ever could; for your smile, for the way you laugh at his stupid, stupid complaints about DRS while tossing a pillow at him, for the way you wait with open arms after every press conference for him to collapse into you.

His heart aches despite the urgency of the situation; you're totally alone, watching him drive with clasped hands and unsteady breathing as everybody around you stands oblivious to your true reason for being there.

And just like that, with your laugh echoing in his ears, Satoru Gojo is decided.

He needs to win.

He has to win.

The crowd is hushed- and then, there’s a tremendous swell of sound as they cross the finish line- Gojo first!- and you’re wincing at the screams outside, inside too; every mechanic laughing and patting each other on the back, the female journalist stepping outside to make last minute hair and makeup arrangements before they roll live.

You are standing in the corner of the garage, quietly smiling from ear to ear, tears beading in your waterline-

“Justttttt a second, folks.” The announcer says seriously. “I hope Ferrari wasn’t popping any corks too soon- we’re still waiting on a photo finish confirmation. Oh, hang on-“ the crowd hushes again. You freeze, terrifyingly nervous, expensive bracelets from Gojo jingling in the suspenseful quiet.

“We’ve had a result- by one and a half tantalisingly close seconds, Satoru Gojo is officially this season's Formula One’s champion! Commiserations to Mercedes. Stay tuned for further interviews-“

The garage fills with cheers, just as the woman from before is stepping inside with freshly glossed lips and perfect hair, every step practiced as her heels click on the floor. A wide smile beams from ear to ear as she mouths the ‘on air’ countdown- 3, 2, 1!

“Yuki Tsukumo here, live from Singapore, where Satoru Gojo has just beaten Mercedes’ Suguru Geto by one and a half seconds! We’ll be interviewing him shortly, right after we go over some of the highlights- what?” She hisses, her cameraman shrugging nervously and gesturing at a handwritten sign. “He’s coming here? Now?” She says, panicked.

“But why?”

It’s the question on everybody’s lips as they watch an exhausted, beaming Satoru Gojo- freshly out of the car- jog towards his garage.

“Well, ah, I suppose he’s thanking his pit crew then- how …gentlemanly!” Yuki smiles, smoothly motioning with one tilt of her head for the cameraman to follow her, microphone held out in preparation to conduct the interview she’s been waiting all season for.

“So, Gojo-“ she begins, launching into the rehearsed questions as the plastic lanyard jangles around her neck.

“I wanna thank everybody,” he interrupts, shoving back his white hair from his sweaty forehead, “who made this possible. To my management, to my friends, to everybody who changed a wheel or-“

He locks eyes with you across the garage and breaks into the biggest, most genuine smile you’ve ever seen from him. It makes your heart ache, and your hand twitches at your side- you aren’t supposed to act like you know him, but it’s so awfully difficult when he looks at you like that, like you hung the stars.

“And,” he says shakily, striding across the garage. Yuki follows in mild confusion, the camera feed beaming onto hundreds of appliances across the globe, audience waiting in anticipation. “To my beautiful girlfriend-“

You almost don’t hear the rest of the sentence. The crowd explodes, a huge surge of shock, and everybody else in the garage looks just as surprised- Yuki’s mouth gapes open in a perfect, comedic ‘o’ shape, microphone limp at her side.

“-who made this happen.” He smiles down at you, the wobbly camera broadcasting the lovestruck look in his eyes- mirrored by yours- and the hands on your waist.

“Who made all of this happen.”

Then, he’s tugging you away, hurriedly bundling into the back of a car without even bothering to acknowledge the photographers, nor the relentless white flashing of their cameras. Gojo doesn’t even bother to look at the crowd- he’s focused on you, his not-so-secret girlfriend and the look of undulated adoration you’re providing him with.

“Ijichi-“ he says breathlessly, the man in the front straightening up suddenly. “You know where I’m staying, right?”

“Y-yes- congratulations-“ Ijichi stutters, glasses slipping on his nose. “I just didn’t realise you’d be this early- and that there’d be, ah, two passengers-“

Gojo smiles, face glinting in the rearview mirror. “Just drive, Ijichi. I’ll pay off any speeding fines.”

The black-haired man nods shakily, foot pressing down on the acceleration as the speed needle ticks directionally. Singapore is beautiful at night, you’ve come to realise- tall buildings, glinting streetlights.

The windows on every skyscraper glisten in the moonlight, shadows passing through the car like dark, transparent jellyfish. Residuals of the noise from the crowd fade into the background, chattering and shouting.

South-East Asia can be unforgiving in its weather, you've come to realise over many years, many hours spent cooped up in hotels with Gojo as rain lashes the glass. But tonight, it's perfect.

If you squint, you can catch the moon reflecting serenely onto the water; pearly streaks of light, painting the sky- the window is rolled down, warm wind whipping your face.; you feel calm, peaceful, and a look at your boyfriend reveals the same.

Body relaxed as he slumps against the seat, he’s watching you smile at the scenery; blue eyes track your pretty face, the gentle curve of your waist, the whitening of your knuckles as you grip the windowsill of the car for support to lean just a little further out into the freedom the night so generously provides.

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

“I still cannot believe you told everybody!” You’re giggling, stretched out lazily on the plush duvet of the hotel suite’s king-sized bed. Gojo is towelling off from a shower, steam licking underneath the door of the en suite.

Your phone hasn’t stopped buzzing- it rests in your hands, lighting up your face as you scroll amusedly through the news feed on your screen. You dramatically flourish your hands as you read the headlines out to him, voice echoing through into the steamy bathroom.

“Behind every successful man is a… secret girlfriend? Read more about Satoru Gojo’s shock reveal now!”

“Spotted at Monaco, Miami... and Suzuka!? New retrieved footage reveals more!”

“Ferrari’s surprise sweetheart- who is she, and will we be seeing more of her from now on?”

You giggle reading that last one, then promptly seal your lips shut again as you’re met with the devastatingly beautiful view emerging from the en-suite. Boxers hung low on his hips, toned abdomen and huge biceps you can’t help but want wrapped around your head.

"Oh."

Your mouth goes dry, eyes trailing from the sizeable bulge at his crotch to his piercingly cerulean eyes. He’s already looking at you, grinning as he watches the way you blush under his gaze; a thumb lingers at his waistband, dragging the material just a little lower.

The motion reveals a larger splice of his v-line, white hair ghosting across the skin and dipping below the band of elastic that's keeping you from squealing. Gojo’s a tease- always has been; he enjoys the way you squirm, eyes darting anywhere but the trail leading down to where he wants you.

“You’re overdressed.” He says smoothly, padding over to you. He’s right- when is he ever wrong?- you’re still in the outfit from earlier, makeup included. His thumb- the one not actively teasing the skin above his waistband- lightly drifts over your lower lip, and you tremble.

“You should fix that.”

You’re shaking with anticipation, letting your hands coast gently across your waist, up your abdomen to peel away the thin straps of the dress. Letting them fall down, dragging the straps of your pretty blue bra with them, exposing just a hint more of cleavage that has Gojo gulping. Who's the tease now?

Swallowing thickly, coming to plant two big hands around your waist and fumble with the zipper, metal hushing across expensive fabric and pooling at your bare feet until you’re left wriggling; his touch is featherlight- but you know it won’t last long, not with the way he’s eyeing you up so hungrily.

“I, uh-“ you whisper, staring up at all 6’3 of your boyfriend, desperately trying to ignore the tent between his thighs, “I thought you might like this set. It’s new-“

“I know- fuck, I know, I’d remember if I’d seen this one before-“ Gojo groans, hands coming to cup your tits. The set is pretty- bought only a week ago, dainty blue lace paired with white accents. “God, you’re so perfect," he rambles, hand gripping your hip before gravitating naturally towards your thighs. He parts them easily, your legs automatically spreading for his touch. "I can’t believe how long it took me to make you mine-“

“Satoru, I’ve been yours.” You correct breathlessly, already bucking into the two fingers slicking through your dewy folds, pushing the delicate panties to the side. At that, he groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder.

“Publicly, I mean- fuck, you’re so wet I could cry, baby-“

He means it- swelling blossoms of adoration in his chest, restricting his breathing with every soft noise that escapes your lips; Gojo almost can’t believe it- all he has to do to get you moaning his name is to crook his fingers, righhhhhhttttt there, and he knows you’ll have your thighs clenching messily around his deft wrist.

“Wait, wait, wait, stop-“ you breathe, eyes widening, fingers tugging at the nape of his neck. “This is supposed to be about you.” You say softly, pushing back the dimming curtain of white obscuring his eyes. "You won."

His eyes crinkle happily, your hand on his bare chest pushing lightly across the muscle. "I win anyway," he says sappily, hearts forming in his eyes as he gazes down at you, "because you're allllll mine." He's joking around, unserious as ever, but you're determined.

“Go lie down.”

"But-"

"Please?" You pout at him, eyes sparkling and thighs slick, and he doesn't think he has the inhuman discipline needed to disobey you. Gojo's knees are already weak, buckling the longer you look expectantly up at him.

Rosy lips part, trembling around words that fail to make the transition into audibility as he looks at you- pretty, lips already kiss-swollen, body covered in diaphanous lace. Swallowing thickly, he just nods and strides towards the bed.

He gulps, throat dry as he shimmies down his underwear, and settles himself down. Milky back against the headboard, thighs spread open loosely to accommodate his achingly hard cock; as you watch, a bead of pre jitters out and seeps down to his base, soaking into the patch of hair.

“C’mon, please, don’t teaseeeee-“ he whinges, hips bucking. “Supposed to be a reward, and you’re making me wait-“

You roll your eyes. You could’ve just hopped onto the mattress, but where’s the fun in that? Palms and knees cushioned by the duvet, tits equally cushioned by delicate lace, you crawl, swaying from the foot of the bed to between Gojo’s thighs and he almost moans at the arch in your spine.

“Fuck,” he gasps, watching as you settle on your stomach and drag a manicured nail ever so slowly up his length, tracing a vein that marks his underside alllllllll the way up to his blushing tip; where you’re planting just the softest kiss, murmuring words of affection as salt smears between your lips.

"Sensitive?" You question pleasantly, already knowing the answer.

You aren't gratified with a verbal response, just a dull groan and a hand on your head.

His size is ludicrous- taking it is no small feat, and only halfway down you start spluttering. His dick pokes into the inside of your cheek, bulging obscenely; salt trickles down your throat, muscle constricting around him as you take more.

And more, and more, and more, until-

“Jesus,” he whispers shakily, hand hovering over the crown of your head and threading through tresses of hair. “You do that every time, and I’m still surprised- oh, fuck, do that again-“ he moans disgracefully, head lolling to the side as you flick your tongue over his tip, head bobbing gently.

You puff in small breaths through your noise, lips stretching crudely open to swallow every perfectly veined inch; Gojo’s pale hand rests preciously on your head, guiding your lewd movements as you shiver around his length. Saliva mixes with pre, oozing out of your mouth in opaline droplets.

All Gojo can do as you work him is moan out a sultry little “F-fuck, baby-“, as you relish in the way his palms clamp your mouth to his base, fingers entwined in your mussed hair. Thick ropes of cum splash against the back of your throat, dribbling messily onto his already soaked pelvis.

You gasp as he pulls you off, strings of spit snapping midair as they overstretch their distance from your plump lips to his twitching cock. Swallowing every drop, musky saline coating your tastebuds, it’s all you can do to giggle as Gojo incredulously swipes away a droplet of his own cum back into your mouth.

Thumbing at your lips, the digit pushes inside your mouth- only for a second, just enough to brush across your swirling tongue and make Gojo shudder as your teeth catch lightly on the skin.

“C’mere. Wanna kiss you.” He breathes, hands cradling your face dotingly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say there was practically teeny pink hearts blooming in his eyes as he melts into you. His lips slot against yours perfectly, like he’s been thinking about this all day.

Gojo’s hands slide from your face to palm at your tits, thumbs running over your nipples through the lingerie covering them. One hand continues, while the other slips delicately around to unhook the clasp with one fluid motion. It’s like he’s done it a hundred times- which he probably has, and it never gets old.

“I was really- hck- really proud of you today, Toru-“ you mumble against his mouth, tongue tracing the indent of his lower lip.

“Yeah?” He says, breaking the kiss just long enough to slot his thigh between your legs, gazing at you adoringly. “You were?”

Grinding slightly against his flexed muscle, “Mmm… very.” It’s true- you’ve seen how hard he works himself, the pressure he puts himself under, and he deserved everything he won today.

His hands dwarf your hips, pushing the lace on your panties to brand the flesh underneath as he trembles, motioning you back and forth on his thigh; tilting his muscle up ever so slightly, just enough for your slick to seep through onto his skin below.

“Feels good?” Gojo offers breathlessly, cock sobbing at the sight of your pussy pressed flush to his thigh. The lace has soaked through by now, your bra lying helplessly on the carpeted floor below as a foggy, euphoric haze overtakes your vision.

“Y-Yeah.” You answer meekly, breath stuttered and stifled by the way your poor clit catches just right as he flexes the muscle below. You cry out and bury your burning face into his shoulder, tits pressed flush to his front.

It feels so good- the sensation of his bare skin grinding against your needy cunt, dribbling all over and throbbing, is so perfect. But it isn't enough. "Need more-" you mewl pathetically, eyes screwed shut as mascara streaks your face, smearing stygian trails across his shoulder.

“Keep going, sweetheart-“ he mouths into your hair, words tangled amongst your own stringed out moans. “I know you can, just gotta get you ready for me, alright? You can do that, can’t you?”

You whine, and he just chuckles incredulously. “You’re incredible, you know that? Such a good girl, getting off on me without even taking my dick yet.”

You nod repeatedly. You arch. You cum-

You twitch through the orgasm, slick spilling like nectar across your ruined panties. Gojo just sighs shakily, hands finally loosening on your hips to squeeze your ass, scooping greedy handfuls of flesh.

You moan sweetly, and the kiss that follows tastes of him. It tastes of need, of the blood you swear pools at his lip when you tug so hard he groans hungrily into your mouth and devours you whole.

“Flip over.” Already pumping his twitching cock again, Gojo hovers above your already fucked-out body. The sheets are soft, and they billow out in a little puff of white around your tits, your arms, your parted thighs, creasing when your hips buck all needy into his swiping fingers.

Your hair fans out around your skull, a shiny halo splaying across the plush pillows behind. Gojo crawls over you, mouth tracing patterns across your body before he draws himself up to eye level.

Panting with barely hidden restraint, he mutters out a, “you ready?”

You nod, breathe a quiet affirmation, then squeak as his tip nudges through your folds; he’s slicking himself up, preparing for the inevitable moment when he’ll lose all control and bury himself inside you.

The stretch is slow, and burning, and filling.

Mazing through your plush insides, you push past the sting and blink away the tears blurring his pretty face. He’s not even halfway in, and already stuttering, hips rutting desperately forwards into his own mess.

“Oh, hah, shit, sorry-“ he chokes out, eyes squeezing shut and snowy lashes feathering your face as he kisses your cheek uncoordinatedly.

“Did- Toru, did you just-“ you say incredulously, eyes widening as you feel the swathes of buttery slick spill across your cunt. Gojo giggles, cheeks warming deliriously.

“Cum? Yeah, guess I did, sweetheart. Can you blame me? S’been such-“ he punctuates it with a cruel jolt of his pelvis and a cracked groan, “such a hard day.”

You can’t do anything but squeal as he bottoms out, hips flush to yours as his cock bullies sweetly into your insides. Careening around, every spot bruised by his greedy length; droplets of translucent beads trickle out of your weeping pussy, puddling obscenely onto the mattress below.

Understanding seems futile when sleeping with Gojo, it always has; you simply can't comprehend how he manages to fill you up to the point of squirming uncontrollably within a few thrusts. He isn't even properly fucking you yet and you're this ruined, the feeling of his base grazing your clit sending prickly strips of warmth through your body.

“Oh-“ he hisses, hands grabbing at your waist as you arch instinctively away from his touch, the sensations proving to be almost excessively intense. “Oh, where are you going, baby?”

“I don’t know!” You whine, thighs dimpled by his weighty fingertips; one set of fingers settles upon your puffy clit, tapping- spanking- down and producing just the filthiest sounds possible.

Hips bucking, lashes faltering, you’re pushed over the edge again- muscles spasming inward, heat curling consumingly through your dampening skin as more wetness soaks Gojo’s eager happy trail.

The world tilts on its axis. Sheets cushion your face and you almost scream as he rams back in, curving and mazing through every orifice of drooling muscle inside your pussy. Your words are muffled into the mattress, mascara leaving cimmerian blurs of black on the white fabric.

"Oh, what was that?" Gojo giggles deliriously. A beefy, sculpted bicep wrangles itself around your throat and yanks you up- he's put you in a fucking headlock. With his bicep.

You gasp, eyes rolling back in their sockets, lips unable to get out any of the incoherent thoughts blaring through your swimmingly melted head. He's cocky- on and off the track, you dimly acknowledge. You'd almost laugh if it wasn't for the way your nails were scrabbling at his bicep, red lines streaking across pale muscle.

Your cunt flutters around him again, clit pulsing for touch as you're thrown overboard to the waves of your high. The noise that wrenches itself from your lungs is guttural, clawing messily at your ears and invading your senses as the vision your orgasm tears from you dully swims back into focus.

"Ready?"

You sob, face plunged back into the pillows as Gojo releases you from the grip of his merciless arm. "Ready f-for what-"

Again, he flips your body around like you weigh nothing- hands pulling at your limp waist, flopping your loose spine back to the sheets so you can finally see his flushed, gorgeously debauched face again.

“Yeah, yeah that’s right-“ he moans, hands pushing your wriggling thighs apart, “taking it so well for me, just gotta- hck- keep it alllll inside-“

“B-but you’re so deep-!” You wail, cunt fluttering around him as he plunges repetitively into your very cervix, the circumference sure to be branded into your walls by the next day. “Oh, I know-“ Gojo purrs into your ear, teeth catching onto your earlobe.

“I can see.”

Sobbing deliriously, lips pouting outwards as a trickle of drool makes its way from your mouth, shining on your skin. “W-what-“

“Oh, baby-“ he coos, hands groping the backs of your thighs and pushing; “look.”

You hiccup and squeal- a mating press, knees pressed to your own tits, bent almost in half; but that isn’t why your mouth is falling open in surprise, eyes widening. It’s at something else entirely- the bulge.

Small, but undeniable- almost unbelievably lewd, you can see Gojo moving from the outside. Filling you up so carnally, fucking just bouts and bouts of smothering cum into your weeping pussy it leaves evidence behind; his hand rests over it, icy blue eyes entranced with the way it protrudes out.

“Oh, fuck.” You gasp, crying and clawing at his biceps when he pushes down and whimpers, feeling the way he fills you so completely it shows through. As he does so, even more cum drips out of your overstuffed insides, soaking the duvet- the mattress, even, through.

“Yeaaahhhhh,” he titters, enjoying the way your eyes knock back in your head with every lewd thrust, “yeah, s’all me.”

You’re barely conscious for the pulsing, dull sensation that the next orgasm brings; you moan weakly, hips jerking into his gyrating pelvis- and the face you make is enough for Gojo to cum, too, blue eyes rolling back in their sockets.

“Marry me-“ he gasps, sucking in as much breath as his cramped lungs will allow, hands shaking as he throws your wobbly legs over his strong shoulders. “Marry me, please, you’re all I’ve ever wanted, I love you, just- fuck, please-“

He trembles through it, streaks upon ropes of white painting your insides, seeping out when you can’t physically hold anymore.

When he comes down from his high, body still clenching with the aftershocks, his hand slowly moves to relax your shaking legs back onto the bed with as much energy as he can muster. Gojo slumps beside you, taking you in.

Your eyes peel open, bleary from tears; every part of your body is thrumming in the afterglow, thighs sticky. Both of you lie there for a few moments, catching your breath in the sex-heavy air of the bedroom, your damp palm swiping away the streaks of mascara on your face.

You clear your throat, voice cracking around the syllables of your question. “Did, um, did you..."

“Mean it?” Gojo hurries, avoiding eye contact, "...yeah, I really did." You blink at him, surprised.

"Not- fuck, this was supposed to go a lot smoother-" he says nervously, running a hand through his messy white hair. "I was supposed to propose properly, like you deserve- on one knee, somewhere special, not just because I was inside you-" he groans, face in his palms.

"Satoru." You say softly, the palm you lie on his arm making him jerk as your other hand pulls the sheets up over your bare chest, leaning closer to him in his despair. "You thought about it that much?"

"Of course." Gojo admits, quietly, like the admission lays his heart out bare on a table for you to inspect and he's nervous about it. Suddenly, his eyes light up and his back straightens. "Wait, wait, don't say anything yet-"

He rolls over onto his side, stretching over to fumble with the bedside drawer; hands shove things away desperately, assorted complimentary tissues and essential oils tumbling and rolling uncoordinatedly around. He puffs a sharp intake of breath, like he's calming his own nerves, and turns back around slowly.

Gojo’s facing you again, palm shaking as he extends an open box. Inlaid in the silk cushioning, curled unsuspectingly, rests the prettiest ring you’ve ever seen- you gasp, suddenly awfully aware of how much your heart hurts. You're just so in love with him it aches like a living thing, tendrils of affection twisting around your heartstrings and tugging encouragingly like an old friend.

“I guess it’s a little late, but… will you marry me?”

He laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes- they’re full of worry, of anticipation for your answer.

Slowly, you nod, tears beading in your waterline again as you press your lips softly to his. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

“Nasty crash on the hairpin there for Toji Fushiguro… and it was going so well!” The announcer groans. The same duo from last season, you recall vaguely, enjoying the sensation of just observing- as yourself, this time.

“That’s Monaco for you, I suppose! Folks, we’re back at it again and as Satoru Gojo, reigning champion, enters these final six laps, what do you suspect he’s thinking about?” The man says over the speakers.

“Probably winning. I know I would be!” The second announcer replies.

You watch as the cars zip around the track, blurry hues of colour bouncing around in your peripherals; you laugh at something somebody quips, and adjust your hair. The atmosphere is relaxed for a final, your nerves secured by the amount of points Gojo's amassed over the season; you're sure the sport websites are already writing up their painfully alliterated headlines about the future World Champion as you watch.

“Yuki Tsukumo here, live from Monaco! Now, I could make a joke about McLaren's crash, but I'm supposed to be impartial." She winks, "but what definitely isn’t a joke, is just how tight this race is,” she continues, blonde hair flicking over her shoulder. “The midsection of the leaderboard is constantly changing. For now, though, perhaps unsurprisingly after his victory last year, Satoru Gojo sits steadily in the lead. Let’s take a look!”

The broadcast cuts to an overhead view, cars reeling around the city like colourful pinpricks on a sea of uniform grey track. Yuki hums, mic hanging loosely in her hand as she turns to you and smiles. “Hey, so was Gojo always your type? He never did tell us how long you were dating for before last year, and the press is just dying to know.”

You blink at her, tilting your head in silent questioning. “Oh!” She says, laughing, “I’m off duty now. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything slip… but were you together for quite a while? Is it... serious?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

Your wedding band, as gorgeous as it was the day he gave it to you, slots perfectly around your ring finger. Inlaid with glimmering gemstones, the metal catches the light fondly and gleams as you lift it up to Yuki’s eyeline. She gasps, leaning in closer and clapping her hands together.

“Oh my God,” she says, “it’s gorgeous! Can I take an interview? Was the wedding small? Okinawa, Tokyo or Kyoto for the honeymoon?” She’s still reeling off questions as you tuck the hand back safely to rest absently on your stomach, flowy fabric of your dress swaying prettily in the wind as the cars whizz past.

Just wait until they find out about the baby.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

a/n: I LOVED writing this one!! comments appreciated <3

tags (open):

@esavyrse @f33bs @loverofladybugs @p3stop3sta @arabellasolstice @dreamcastgirl99 @starsandni7 @sharkiethrts @what-the-jams @likstars @elenathriel @gyusheadphones

[https-iso]

you’re obsessed with gojo’s beauty marks — even the ones on his dick.

one thing you loved about gojo was the multiple beauty marks he had all around his body. you first noticed them when you went out to the arcade together. having just joined jujutsu tech, principal yaga encouraged you to go out with the other students. you asked satoru, the boy you crushed on the second you were introduced to each other.

if he wanted to hang out after seeing that no one else was available. your heart leaped when he accepted almost immediately.

“i haven’t gone to the fair in forever!” he beamed, smile stretched across his pretty face. “cmon, i’ll play all those basketball tossing games and win you whatever you want.”

when you both walked side to side with several stuffed animals, joking about the bumper cars and how he was a terrible driver, you saw the mole right under his eye. your eyes soon fell down to the one on his right cheek, then one on his plump lips. ever since then, you’ve made it your goal to try and find each one. 

you invited him over to the pool on a scorching hot day, feeling your breath hitch when he took off his shirt to jump in. “you not gonna jump in?” he asked, already prepping himself for a dive. but you were too mesmerized to answer back.

water splashed everywhere when his body fell into the pool, landing on you as well. “satoru!!” you called out, wiping your face with you hands in slight annoyance. he laughed at your reaction, pearly whites shining underneath the sun. there were more beauty marks on his chest, and when he turned around, his back was practically littered with them.

“sorry princess, had to get you wet somehow, right?”

your face burned. in what way did he mean that?

he slid onto the floor next to you, kicking his feet in the water. “you look good in that bikini.” he coo’ed.

“thank you..” you squeaked, forcing yourself to look away. it was quiet for a bit until a wave of confidence washed over you. your hand hesitantly reached out to touch the dots on his arm. satoru looked down at you, confused as to what was happening.

“what’s this, hm?”

“i really like your beauty marks..” you mumbled, tracing each one that traveled down his arm. “yeah? i’ve got some on my ass too.” satoru smiled before you playfully slapped him. “i’m kidding, mostly.”

his hand tugged down his swim shorts just a bit to reveal one on his lower waist, right on that delicious v line. your finger brushed against it, making his breath hitch. “what do you mean mostly?” 

“i mean they’re not on my ass.. but y’know.” 

yeah, you definitely knew. that’s why you both were inside in the living room, deep throating your best friend after he had shown you the beauty mark on his tip. “fuckkk..” satoru threw his head back, opening his eyes to watch the way you bobbed yours up and down. “that’s it, suck harder baby.”

you don’t know how it never came to you that he might’ve had some on his dick as well. but you were glad you got to see them either way. your toes were curled, preventing yourself from gagging excessively. not like it did much when he was packing an 8 inch cock that could kill someone.

your whimpers sent vibrations through him, making him arch on the couch. “gonna cum..” he warned, but your eyes were fixated on all the pretty marks on his body. he was like the sky decorated in stars and you were just a stargazer.

“been wanting ya for months.. think i haven’t seen ya staring at me like im a piece of meat? huh?” he slapped your cheek playfully, dropping the hand to squeeze your throat. “got a beauty mark kink or something sweet girl?” you whimpered, eyes shutting close when his warm seed spilled into your mouth. “take every last drop.”

seeing that you obeyed, he gently pulled away. a string of a mixture of saliva and cum connected you to his tip, making you want more.

“wanna count them all now?”

[jayneluvsu]

i loveeeeeeee

[jayneluvsu]

ok i’m so confused rn. WHY is there sm drama on TUMBLR?? WHY are there so much people quiting???

ya’ll don’t even know eachother fr so why are you bothered by what other people are doing omg??? 😩

someone plz lmk

[yunamoona]

sometimes when I’m reading or writing smut I have to paranoidly check all my texts, instagram, and tiktok

you know, just incase I pressed the “SEND TO ALL FRIENDS, RELATIVES, BOSS, AND ACQUAINTANCES + ADD TO EVERY STORY AND TIMELINE TO EXPOSE YOUR LEWD PERVERTED HOBBY FOR ALL TO SEE” button. happens to the best of us

[iipxilf]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 '𝐲𝐞𝐬' .

clark kent x fem!reader .ᐟ

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ masterlist

synopsis : you’re quiet, awkward. not used to being liked—especially not by someone like clark kent. but he’s warm, patient, and always smiling at you like he sees something worth waiting for. (wc : 4k)

a/n : based on this request ! this was so fun to write omgg like my heart is melting 🤍🥹 as soon as i got the ask this morning, i had to write it today

contents : awkward!reader, fluff, workspace love, mutual pining, friends-to-lovers, soft romance, emotional intimacy, soft kisses, they’re falling hard for eachother your honor, clark’s a big sweetheart

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

you hope he isn’t.

not because the idea is unwelcome—but because it terrifies you in a quiet, breathless way. 

you’ve never been particularly good at that sort of thing, at reading signals or knowing what to say when someone looks at you too long, too softly. 

especially when it’s clark. that sweet, focused kind of attention short-circuits your brain. it’s not sharp like a spotlight or teasing like a smirk—it lingers. gentle and intentional. like he just… likes you. and you don’t know what to do with that.

you weren’t built for being liked that way. you’re not good with words unless they’re typed on a screen. not good at holding someone’s gaze for more than a second without overthinking every blink, every breath. your smiles are usually delayed reactions—polite, practiced, easy to forget. you chew on your sleeves. you answer questions like they’re quizzes. you apologize when people bump into you. and when clark kent stands close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm linen and sunlight—you feel like a glitch in the system.

clark is like someone dipped a daydream in golden hour and gave it a name.

he’s warm all the time. like—literally, you’re pretty sure he runs hot. his smiles are easy, and his voice is low in the kind of way that feels like a secret meant only for you, and it flutters somewhere behind your ribs in a place you don’t have the courage to name. 

everyone at the daily planet seems to gravitate toward him—jimmy calls him the nicest guy in the building, lois rolls her eyes when she says he’s a dork, and perry’s always grumbling about how he’s the only one who turns things in early. he’s dependable in a way people notice. in a way people love.

and you? you mostly say things like “thanks” and “cool” and hope he doesn’t notice how you stare at the floor when he talks to you. you keep your hands busy, your thoughts quiet, and your heart on lockdown.

but clark always talks to you.

like he doesn’t mind when you fumble. like he doesn’t care that your voice shakes a little or that you’re not quite sure how to be looked at so gently. 

“hey,” he says one morning, stepping into the elevator just before the doors seal shut. the overhead lights flicker once above him—just enough to catch the faint glint in his glasses, the raindrops still clinging to his collar. his tie’s a little crooked like he got dressed in a hurry, and his hair is soft and damp, curling faintly at the edges from the drizzle outside. he’s holding two coffees, again. one in each hand, fingers careful, familiar. “i got an extra.”

you blink. glance at the cup, then at him.

“…you didn’t have to.”

“i know,” he says easily, voice dipped in something warm. “but i wanted to.”

the elevator hums around you, a quiet mechanical hush. you stare at him a second too long, long enough that it starts to ache a little behind your ribs. then you nod and reach out for the cup, fingers brushing against his by accident.

your stomach flips—sharp and sudden, like the beginning of a fall.

he smiles like it’s nothing. like it didn’t just change your whole morning.

“careful,” he murmurs, gentle. “still warm.”

you take the cup with both hands, like it’s something delicate, and try to disappear behind the rim.

the coffee smells like cinnamon today. a little sweet, a little bitter. just the way you like it.

you’ve worked here for four months now. long enough to memorize the floor numbers by feel, long enough to stop getting lost on your way back from the printer. but still—clark kent makes everything feel new. like every day is a question you don’t know how to answer.

for at least three of those months, he’s been trying to get you to like him.

and for at least two of them, you have—you just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. it’s not the kind of crush that fizzes in your chest or leaves you giggling in the stairwell. it’s quieter than that. like something that curled up behind your lungs when you weren’t paying attention.

you’ve never liked someone like this before. not someone who sees you; not someone who waits, without needing you to perform or perfect or pretend; not someone who’s kind for the sake of it—who remembers the way you take your coffee, who always holds the elevator even when you’re still halfway down the hall, who never lets your silence feel like an inconvenience.

and always, always—smiles when you walk into the bullpen like it’s the best part of his day.

which is insane.

because you’re just—you.

and clark kent is…

well—he’s clark kent.

he stops by your desk around noon.

you’re eating lunch, sort of—picking at a half-warm sandwich you forgot to toast, one hand scrolling through the headlines, the other wrapped limply around the crust like it might make the day move faster. you’re not really reading, not really chewing, just going through the motions. the office is soft around the edges—phones ringing somewhere far off, the hum of conversation low and constant like the inside of a seashell.

suddenly—“hey.”

you glance up too quickly, nearly dropping your sandwich. clark is leaning on the edge of your desk like he belongs there, arms crossed, his sleeves rolled past the elbows. his forearms are tan and solid, scattered with freckles. 

you blink. “hey.”

“you doing okay today?”

“yeah,” you say, too fast, too bright. “fine. just… work.”

he smiles like he knows exactly what that means. “same.”

but he doesn’t leave. he stays propped there, casual, like gravity doesn’t quite apply to him. like your desk is the most natural place in the world to be. your heart skips, then stumbles. you look back at your sandwich like it holds the answers.

he shifts a little, rubbing the back of his neck. his gaze flicks briefly to your screen, then back to you. “you, uh… you doing anything after work?”

you look up, a little slower this time.

“no,” you say. then—too quick again—“why?”

“oh. no reason.” his voice dips a little, softer now. “just wondering.”

your mouth opens, then closes. you nod, like that’s a normal thing to do when someone maybe-almost-asks-you-out.

he waits a second longer, then pushes off the desk, casual but careful. like he’s testing a door to see if it might open. “well… let me know if you ever wanna grab dinner or something. y’know. just—just putting it out there.”

you blink twice.

“…cool.”

and then he’s gone, just like that. no flourish, no teasing smile over his shoulder. just the scent of rain still clinging to his shirt and the sound of your pulse roaring in your ears.

you sit with it—the idea of it, the weight of it. the fact that he asked if you were free and said the word dinner like it didn’t mean everything. like it didn’t tilt your entire world an inch to the left.

your stomach swirls—too many feelings, not enough space. you’re not even sure it was a date, or if he meant it like one. but god, something inside you aches anyway. aches in that soft, frightened way you only feel when you want something badly enough to ruin it.

and you do want it.

you want him.

but you’ve never been good at wanting things. you’ve always been better at hoping silently, better at folding your feelings into neat little corners where no one can see them.

so you hope he doesn’t stop trying.

he doesn’t.

a few more days pass. he still brings you coffee—always says it like it’s an accident, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t rehearse it in his head on the way over. he still smiles when you pass his desk, still waves during meetings like the two of you share a secret language. like you’re the only one in the room that matters.

and slowly—so slowly—you start smiling back.

you start hovering near his desk when you have a question, even when you already know the answer. you start remembering how he takes his coffee—black, no sugar, but a little too hot to drink right away.

and one morning, before you can second-guess it, you beat him to it.

you show up at his desk with two cups, your hands trembling just enough to spill a little on the lid. your pulse flutters in your throat, and your mouth feels too full.

he looks up, and his eyes go wide.

“oh,” he says, breath catching like he wasn’t expecting it. “you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” you cut in gently. and this time, you smile. “but i wanted to.”

his face changes then—goes soft at the edges, flushed with something warm and quiet and real. he takes the cup from you carefully, like it means something. like you mean something.

his fingers brush yours. neither of you moves away.

the silence hangs for a moment. not awkward, not empty,  just full.

“it’s still warm,” you murmur.

and that’s the moment.

because clark kent—who’s always a little clumsy around you, who stutters when he’s nervous and laughs too loud and never stops fidgeting—goes still.

he looks at you like you’ve just solved something.

like the world just clicked into place.

“so are you,” he says softly.

and you look away, face burning, heart thudding against your ribs.

but you don’t stop smiling.

you’re not even sure when he asked you. 

it didn’t happen in a way you could mark on a calendar or replay in your head like a movie—it was quieter than that, smaller. not some grand gesture, no dramatic pause, no flicker of violin music swelling in the background. 

just clark, leaning over the side of your desk on a lazy thursday afternoon, sleeves of his shirt rolled high enough to show the faint line where his watch sometimes rests. his hair was a little messy, soft and wind-tousled like he’d walked fast to get here or maybe spent the better part of the morning running his hands through it while thinking. the light from your monitor threw a soft glow across his cheekbone, caught in the edge of his glasses. he looked casual—tired, maybe—but still impossibly kind.

“hey,” he said, voice lowered to something just above a whisper. “you feel like dinner next friday? i know a place.”

you remember blinking up at him, heartbeat slowing in that way it does when the world suddenly starts paying too much attention. you remember the tight catch of breath in your chest, the throb of heat in your ears. you remember asking, carefully, “… like a date?”

and then he smiled. that crooked, too-soft smile that always looked like it snuck up on him. the one that made your stomach knot in this warm, fluttering way. “yeah,” he said, nodding. “like a date.”

you had to swallow before answering, throat bone-dry like you hadn’t drunk anything in hours. “okay,” you said. “sure.”

he grinned, full and boyish and easy, like you’d just made his entire day. “yeah?”

you nodded again, more like a reflex than a decision, and watched him walk off down the row of desks—hands stuffed in his pockets, hair still mussed, whistling under his breath like he didn’t just knock the wind out of your lungs and rearrange your entire week.

now it’s friday. and you’re dressed—probably.

you’ve changed shirts at least three times, possibly more. they’re all slung across the end of your bed now in crumpled piles that look like the aftermath of a storm. 

you keep sitting down, then standing up again. your stomach won’t stop twisting. nothing in your closet feels right—not cute enough, not subtle enough, not something he’ll like, or maybe too much of something he will. 

the mirror hasn’t helped. every time you look, your eyes dart to different flaws. maybe your makeup is off. maybe you should’ve tied your hair differently. maybe you shouldn’t be trying at all. you keep asking yourself if this is too much. or worse, if it’s not enough.

your phone buzzes softly where it rests beside the lamp, a little heartbeat in the stillness. you reach for it without thinking, palms already clammy.

clark : outside when you’re ready :) 

you stare at the text. the smiley face makes your chest ache. not in a bad way. in the kind of way that feels like cracking open. 

he’s outside—waiting. for you.

your hands shake when you reach for your coat. you fumble with the zipper, check your reflection one last time—not to change anything, just to ground yourself. and when you turn out the light and step out the door, your heart is thudding so hard you think it might echo down the hallway.

you go anyway.

he’s waiting outside.

standing just beneath the soft spill of the streetlamp, arms loose at his sides, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat. 

his foot taps a quiet rhythm against the sidewalk, not impatient, just something for the nerves to do while he waits. he’s dressed in a navy button-up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and dark slacks that fit a little too well, like someone helped him pick them out. but it isn’t the clothes that get you. it never is.

it’s the way his shoulders ease the second he sees you step out. like he’d been holding his breath and didn’t know it. like you, just appearing, was enough to settle something in him.

“hey,” he says, voice catching faintly at the edges. “you look—wow. you look great.”

your brain short-circuits on the spot. you stop just past the doorframe, heart tripping awkwardly through your ribs, and scramble for a response you haven’t already rehearsed. “you… too,” you manage, already cringing. “i mean—you look nice. really nice.”

his grin slips out before he can stop it, slow and crooked, like it’s blooming against his will. you want to melt straight through the pavement.

the restaurant he takes you to is warm and quiet, tucked into the far corner of a block you’ve probably passed a dozen times without ever really noticing. the windows are fogged a little from the heat inside, the soft clink of silverware and low conversation spilling gently into the street as he opens the door and steps aside to let you in first. 

it smells like roasted garlic and something sweet you can’t quite name. the lighting is soft, gold and flickering like it’s coming from candles even though it isn’t. jazz hums low through unseen speakers, just enough to paint the air between tables.

he pulls out your chair before you can think to touch it. he takes your coat and doesn’t just drape it over the back of your seat—he folds it over his arm and brings it to the front where the hostess is waiting. 

when he comes back, he doesn’t sit right away. just smiles at you, gentle and warm, like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. then, without needing to ask, he orders sparkling water for both of you, voice casual but kind. you don’t realize until a few seconds later that it’s because he remembers you once said too many drink choices stress you out.

clark doesn’t stop smiling. not once.

he keeps glancing at you between words, between bites, like he’s making sure you’re still here, still with him. like he can’t quite believe it. his knee bumps yours once under the table and he doesn’t pull back right away. he just blushes faintly, then grins again, eyes wide and happy behind his glasses.

you pick at the bread, more for something to do with your hands than anything else. you fidget with the edge of your napkin until it starts to wrinkle, try to sit still, try to act like you belong here. like this is something you’ve done before. but your thoughts won’t stop spiraling—what if you say the wrong thing? what if you mess this up? what if you already have?

about halfway through the starters, he sets his fork down and leans forward just slightly. his voice stays soft. careful. “you okay? you’re quiet.”

you blink, startled. “i’m always quiet.”

he lets out a laugh, low and sweet. “true. but tonight it feels like you’re thinking quiet. not comfortable quiet.”

you look down, heart tightening. “sorry.”

his face shifts fast, all concern and softness. “no—don’t apologize. i didn’t mean it like that. i just meant… if there’s anything i can do to make this easier, i want to.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, eyes still on your plate. the warmth of his voice lingers in the air like steam. then, after a long breath, you shrug.

“…i’ve never really done this before.”

his brows draw in, just a little. “what? dates?”

you nod. “yeah. or, like… letting someone know i like them.”

he goes still—not startled, not smug, just quiet. like you touched something inside him without meaning to.

“…you like me?” he asks, and it’s not a joke. it’s not playful. it’s barely even a question. it sounds like a hope he’s been carrying around in his mouth, waiting for permission to say out loud.

your heart lurches. “i didn’t—I mean—”

“hey,” he says, voice even gentler now, and reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. not a full touch, just enough to feel like contact. “i’m glad. i like you too. obviously.”

you stare at his fingers. then at his face. he’s looking at you like you just gave him the answer to something he’s been wondering about for weeks.

“…really?”

“really,” he says, smiling so softly you feel your throat close. “so much it’s kind of embarrassing.”

you let out a laugh without meaning to—small and startled and real. it escapes before you can contain it. his whole face lights up at the sound, so bright you swear he might float right out of his chair.

by the time dinner ends, something in you has shifted. the tightness in your shoulders is gone, melted somewhere between the second course and the third time he made you laugh so hard you forgot to be nervous. your body angles a little closer to his now, unconsciously drawn in by the way he listens—like every word you say is something worth holding. your answers are longer, fuller. less rehearsed. your eyes find his more often, and you don’t always look away first.

it’s still a little awkward. still full of pauses that hang like half-finished thoughts, full of small, twitchy movements and fidgeting fingers on your napkin. but it’s quieter now, that awkwardness. it doesn’t buzz so loudly in your head. it feels like room—space to breathe, to figure it out. because you’re learning, and he’s waiting. and somehow, even with all the static and silence, you meet somewhere in the middle.

outside, the night has settled deep into the corners of the city. the air is cooler, crisper than it was when you arrived. the restaurant behind you glows faintly from its windows—warm gold spilling across the sidewalk like it wants to hold onto you just a little longer. the street is mostly empty, just the occasional shuffle of a car in the distance, the whisper of wind nudging past your ankles.

clark walks beside you, his pace easy, his hands tucked into his coat pockets as the two of you make your way down the mostly empty sidewalk. 

when you reach your building, he slows, then stops just a few steps from the front door. he doesn’t say anything right away. doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. he just turns toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing yours in a way that feels intentional. his eyes meet yours in the low light, uncertain and warm all at once.

you pause, lingering just beneath the glow of the nearest lamp, fingers twitching at your sides. you’re standing close. close enough to feel the warmth of his coat radiating into your sleeve, close enough to notice the way his breath clouds faintly in the air. your hand shifts—only slightly—but it’s enough that your knuckles brush his.

he looks at you like he’s trying to read something between the lines. like he’s not sure if this is the end of the night or the beginning of something else. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a held breath in the space between you—uncertain. should he lean in? should he back away? should he ask?

so you do it for him.

“… can we do this again?” you ask. your voice is small, but clear. not loud enough to echo, but enough to feel brave.

he lets out a soft laugh, something disbelieving in the way it escapes him. “yeah,” he says. his voice breaks just a little on the word. “god, yeah. please.”

you nod, heart stammering like it wants to jump straight out of your chest. and before you can lose your nerve, before you can overthink it—you lean in, fast and awkward, and press a kiss to his cheek. it’s clumsy. too quick. your lips barely brush his skin before you’re pulling back like you touched something too hot.

“sorry,” you blurt. “that was stupid—”

“no, no—” his hand catches yours before it can retreat, warm and sure. “it wasn’t. i just didn’t expect it.”

you look up.

he’s close now, closer than he’s ever been. the air between you feels thinner. he’s warmer than the night, than the streetlamp humming above you. his cheeks are a little pink, and he’s looking at you like you’re something good.

he clears his throat, voice low and careful. “... can i kiss you?”

your stomach does a full somersault.

you nod.

and clark—clark kisses you like he’s afraid of getting it wrong. like this is the kind of thing you only get to do once, and he wants to make sure it’s perfect. his hand shifts to your cheek, not forceful, just there, a grounding touch as he leans in. 

the kiss is slow, soft. just enough pressure to make your knees go a little weak. just enough warmth to make you forget what month it is. he kisses you like he means it. like he’s wanted to for a long time and still can’t believe he gets to.

when he pulls back, he’s smiling again.

not like someone caught in a daydream.

like someone who finally got to wake up beside one.

divider credits ♡

[jayneluvsu]

this🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹is🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹too🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹cute🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[jayneluvsu]

hi guys i currently have a new fixation

he’s so fine i can’t

[followyourfleart]

ᯓ★ To move forward without his love? Impossible...

Your heartbeat.

It had always been loud to him, even when you were asleep, sprawled across his chest like a warm, stubborn cat. Even when you were mad at him. Even when he had been halfway across the city.

But now…it was fading.

Thud.

…thud.

………thud.

Too slow.

Clark’s stomach dropped—a cold, nauseating freefall that wrapped around him. He almost faltered in mid-air as the thing—the towering, jagged-mouthed monster ripping through downtown—bellowed and sent another swarm of skittering minions spilling across the street.

Metropolis screamed. Cars flipped. Glass rained.

He was already moving, faster than air could follow. The monster lunged, a claw slicing open the street like wet paper, but Clark didn’t even blink. He slammed into the creature with enough force to crater the earth beneath them. Bone snapped. Black blood spurted. The thing howled.

Heat vision carved through it in jagged red lines. He tore limb from limb, ripped through the sinewy hide, crushed the core pulsing in its chest. The creature crumbled, a shriveled husk collapsing to ash, but its minions remained. Dozens. Hundreds.

He split them. Blasted them. Ground them into dust.

When the area was finally cleared, he launched upward, straight toward home. To you.

Except…

His home wasn’t there.

The building was a smoking skeleton, the entire structure shaved down to rubble, floors caved in, concrete pulverized. Flames licked the edges of what used to be his balcony. The wind carried embers like dying fireflies.

His body went immediately to work, even though his ears were listening to you. But he couldn't focus. He pulled survivors from the rubble, barking for names, descriptions, anything. He lifted a man pinned under a beam, a crying woman from a collapsed stairwell, a teenager coated in ash…

Then a cry. Small. Trembling.

“Help! Superman!”

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound.

A little boy. He knew him. A little neighbor who had once given Clark cookies because his mom had made too many. Tears streaked through the dust on his face. He kneeled beside a figure half-buried in debris.

Clark’s chest caved in.

The boy looked up at him, desperate, sobbing. “She—she pushed me—she saved me—please help her—please—!”

It was you.

Head turned slightly, hair tangled with dust and blood. A jagged length of rebar speared straight through your abdomen, pinning you to the twisted ruins of a support beam. Blood soaked your shirt, gathering in dark pools beneath you.

Your trembling, scraped-up hand was wrapped weakly around the boy’s. The boy’s mother was by her son's side, holding him close, but her hand covered both his and yours, squeezing hard, voice breaking.

“She saved him—she pulled him out of the way—oh God, she—she didn’t even hesitate—”

Clark barely heard her.

All he did was move to you. Your pulse was faint. So faint. He felt it slipping like sand between fingers.

“Hey. Sweetheart. Look at me. I’m here,” he breathed, leaning in, voice barely holding together.

Your eyelids fluttered, sluggish and heavy. You managed to turn your head an inch.

“…Cla ...Superman…?”

“I’m here,” he repeated, brushing dust and blood from your cheek with the gentlest hand he had ever had. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, I promise.”

You swallowed, a weak, wet sound. “The kid—he’s okay? He—he didn’t—”

“He’s safe,” Clark whispered fiercely. “Because of you. You saved him. You hear me? You saved him.”

You tried to smile. Your heartbeat stumbled again.

Clark’s eyes snapped to the rebar. He knew what it meant. He knew what removing it would do. He knew there was no way to pull it out without—

He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking.

“Stay with me.” His voice broke, cracking in places it never had. “I can fix this, okay? I can—I can find a way. Just give me a little time, just—stay awake—”

You exhaled shakily, your breath ghosting against his cheek. “... Superman …you’re shaking.”

He was. Violently.

He gathered your hand in both of his, holding it like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

“I love you,” he whispered into your ear, only for you. “I love you, please…please, don’t leave me.”

Your eyes glistened, tears gathering, slipping through grime.

“I—I wasn’t scared. I knew…you’d come.”

Your heartbeat gave another weak, faltering whimper. Your hand squeezed his, barely there.

“Clark…don’t…cry…”

He bowed over you, shoulders shaking as he cupped the back of your head, holding you like you were fragile china.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered into your hair. “I can’t. I can’t. Please, baby, stay—”

Your pulse stuttered—

then paused—

then—

…

The world tilted. Something in him tore open so terrifying he swore he heard the sound.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Honey—hey, look at me. Look…” His voice cracked. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your eyes were open, but unfocused, glassy, wrong in a way his brain refused to process.

People stood a few feet away. Construction workers, EMTs, bystanders who had gotten too close. Someone cried softly. Someone else whispered his name.

Someone filmed.

A distant voice said something about a pulse.

Another said—they couldn’t—no pulse—she was—

He focused back on you and wrapped his hands around the base of the rebar.He ripped it from the ground with a single wrenching pull. Concrete split. The steel shrieked. Dust exploded. Someone gasped. He didn’t look at them.

He slid his arms under you. Your body folded against him, limp, heavy in a way you had never been. His breath hitched as your head fell back.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice torn. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He took off so fast the sound barrier cracked behind him.

He only remembered the way your arm swung lightly with the air currents. The way your hair whipped against his chest, lifeless.

“I know a place,” he muttered against the wind. “I know—I know who can help. Okay? Okay, we’ll—we’ll go home. You’ll be fine.”

Kansas blurred below him. The wheat fields, the barns, the gravel roads—to him they were streaks of color, nothing more. He landed in the Kent driveway with a thud.

“Ma!” His voice wasn’t Superman’s. It was a boy’s. “Ma—Ma!”

The kitchen light flicked on. His mother moved to the window. Her silhouette froze.

Her hands flew to her mouth.

She screamed.

The screen door slammed open so hard it bounced off the house. She ran barefoot across the porch, apron still tied, dish towel still over her shoulder.

“Oh my God—oh my God, Clark—Clark, what—” She dropped to her knees in the dirt beside you. “Baby, what happened? What—”

“Help her,” he choked. “Please—Ma, she’s not—she won’t wake up—just help—please help—”

Her hands fluttered over you.

“Oh honey,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Jonathan!” she sobbed. “Jonathan!”

His Pa appeared in the doorway, confused—until he saw you.

His face drained of color. “Sweet Jesus,” he breathed, stumbling forward. “Clark—what—what happened?”

Clark rocked slightly, unable to stop. “I don’t know—I don’t—she was—I didn’t get there in time—just—help her—Pa, help her—”

He knelt, steady, practiced, the way he’d knelt over dying animals and injured farmhands and old neighbors having heart attacks.

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

Then to your wrist.

Then to the hollow of your throat.

He didn’t speak.

Clark’s breathing hitched, fast, uneven.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” he demanded. “Pa—why—why aren’t you—”

Jonathan looked at Martha.

Martha shook her head, tears spilling freely.

Clark’s whole body went rigid.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t—don’t say it. Don’t—you can’t—she’s just—she’s just hurt—just tell me what to do—tell me how to—”

His Pa reached out and gripped his shoulders.

“Clark.”

“No—”

“Clark.”

“Don’t—Pa—don’t—”

His Pa's voice broke. “Son… she’s gone.”

Absolute silence fell again. Clark blinked once. Twice. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

His Ma reached for him. “Baby, I’m—”

He jerked away.

Clark tried to convince himself you were, but you weren’t. There was no warmth left in your skin. No breath on his neck. No heartbeat in his ears.

Pa squeezed his shoulders harder, grounding him with force. “Clark. She’s gone.”

He made a sound no human throat should have been able to produce—a jagged, animalistic rasp torn from somewhere deep in his chest.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you to him as if pressure alone could force life back into you. As if he could warm you. As if he could will your heart to start.

It took both of them—Pa pulling, Ma coaxing—to slide you from his hold. His fingers clung to your sleeve until the very end, until even that small scrap of fabric slipped away.

“Good girl,” Martha whispered under her breath, hands trembling as she laid you down. “Oh—oh sweetheart, I’m so sorry…”

He stared at them. His folks. His palms. His fingers. The lines, the scars, the strength that had never failed him in his entire life—never once, not with earthquakes or planet-killers or burning buildings. But they had failed you.

He didn’t feel his parents dragging him inside. Didn’t feel the grass under his boots or the porch steps under his boots. Everything blurred, smeared, disconnected. Their voices sounded far away, as if underwater.

“Jonathan, get a towel—he’s covered in blood—”

“I’ll call her folks—God, Martha, how do I even—”

“Do it gentle. For heaven’s sake, don’t be blunt. Clark, honey, sit. Sit down, okay?”

He had no memory of sitting.

Or standing.

Or lying down.

Time warped, stretched, thinned. One minute he was on the couch, Ma wiping blood from his face. The next he was in the shower, water beating against him, mixing with the dirt and your blood circling the drain. Then, he was in his childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling as the light changed and changed and changed again.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t blink.

He barely breathed.

Martha tried to feed him. Pa tried to talk to him. Neither worked. He didn’t need food. He didn’t need sleep. He didn’t need anything.

He stayed on his bed for days, the mattress dipping under his weight, the quilt Ma had made years ago pulled up but never moved. His arms lay limp at his sides. His eyes were dry, cracked from lack of blinking.

Sometimes Ma sat beside him, brushing his hair off his forehead like he was ten years old again.

“Baby,” she whispered. “You have to get up eventually.”

He didn’t respond.

Days had no shape. Nights had no meaning. Time dissolved into a gray, endless smear.

When the funeral day came, Clark didn’t even change. Ma dressed him like he was a child—buttoning his shirt, combing his hair, smoothing down the wrinkles. His hands stayed limp at his sides.

“Come on, son,” Pa said quietly. “She deserves you there.”

He stood only because they guided him. One on each side. A hand on each arm.

At the cemetery, the sky was cruelly bright. The chairs were full. People cried quietly. Some clutched tissues. Some looked at him with confusion, pity.

Your mother’s sobbing was sharp, guttural, frantic. Your father broke down trying to hold her up.

“It’s not real,” your mother cried. “It’s not—this can’t be real—this isn’t happening—”

When your coffin was carried forward, Pa gripped his arm harder. Ma whispered, “Stay with us. Stay standing.”

He watched the wooden box lower slowly, inch by inch.

The machinery whirred.

Lower.

Lower.

He felt the sun on his face. Too hot. Too bright. Too alive. It burned. He wanted to step out of it. Hide from it. Sink somewhere dark and cold.

He wanted to be down there with you.

To fall in beside you and stay there. Let the dirt cover him. Let it weigh him down. Let the earth swallow him whole until nothing was left but silence.

Lying on his back in the soft soil, closing his eyes, letting the sun fade from his skin until he was cold, until he was still, until he felt nothing at all.

Let him in.

Please.

Let him in.

But the world wouldn’t bend for him this once. The earth didn’t open. The grave stayed closed to him. Only to him.

All he could do was watch as they shoveled the first slice of dirt onto your coffin. The thud was final. Violent. Too loud.

Your mother wailed, then your father finally collapsed to his knees, fists full of grass, begging to wake up from whatever nightmare this was.

The wake was worse.

Blurred like smeared ink, like someone had dragged their thumb through the picture of his life until everything was unrecognizable.

He barely remembered being led through the church hall, faces shifting past him like ghosts. Hands touched his back, his arm, someone murmured, “I’m so sorry, Clark,” but he couldn’t hear the words. Couldn’t hear anything.

He remembered one moment with painful clarity: your photo on the table. Candles around it. Your smile trapped in stillness.

He couldn't remember heading back to Metropolis. Didn’t remember stepping into the ruined lot that you and his apartment used to be. No one was there except a construction company destroying the last parts.

He just stood there, staring as they ripped everything away from him.

He was forced to find a new place.

Small.

One bedroom.

One toothbrush in the bathroom.

One bed.

One plate. One cup. One fork.

One.

That was all he needed.

That was all there was left.

He showed up at the office the next day, tie perfectly knotted, hair combed, expression unreadable. Lois blinked twice.

“Clark? What—what are you doing here?”

He set his bag down. “I have work to do.”

“You don’t have to—” Jimmy started.

“I do."

He sat down and typed. Fast. Mechanical. Efficient in a way that had Perry walking over three times just to check if the computer was malfunctioning.

Then, when he was pulling on his suit as he raced through the sky, the League called.

Bruce was the one who talked to him, voice gravelly, but grief like in his own way, like he understood: “You don’t need to come in for missions yet.”

“I’m coming.”

“Clark. Don’t push yourself.”

He hung up.

For the League, he completed missions that normally took teams. For the Planet, he turned in three weeks of content in two days.

He stopped laughing.

Stopped smiling.

Stopped talking unless necessary.

Superman became a machine. Clark Kent became a ghost.

And the world kept spinning without you.

Work.

Save.

Write.

Fly.

Work.

Work.

Work.

That's how he was for months. He did everything with no feeling. People would clammer to him after he saved them. He couldn't even smile, because in their tears of relief, he saw your tears of death.

He lost his love for writing. He didn’t know what half the articles he wrote about were anymore. Didn’t care. His fingers just moved because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant breaking.

This day, no TV murmuring in the background. No kettle warming on the stove. No off-key humming from you as you folded laundry. Just the faint rustle of pages from the stack of untouched mail.

He shifted in his chair, shoulders sagging. He hadn’t shaved in days. Weeks? His stubble didn’t grow much—alien perks—but he looked uncanny. Like a sketch of a man instead of a whole one.

His vision blurred over the screen. He forced a quiet breath in, stopped halfway through it, then pushed his glasses up his nose. Gosh, he was getting another headache.

Then he turned slightly in his chair.

“Sweetheart? Could you make me a coffee? The way you do it.”

It slipped out of him naturally. Automatically.

He waited.

He waited.

A few seconds.

He didn’t hear you laugh at him for asking nicely. Didn’t hear your robe swish as you shuffled into the kitchen. Didn’t hear you sigh dramatically like you always did when he pretended he was helpless with appliances.

He frowned lightly, confused, and turned fully in his seat.

“Hey,” he called again, softer. “Did you hear me?”

Just the hum of the fridge.

His heart thudded—heavy, slow, confused. He stood from his chair in a daze, walking toward the kitchen like he was drifting through a dream.

The counter was empty. Only his lone mug sat upside-down in the rack.

There were no footsteps behind him. No warm hand smoothing over his back. No annoyed little mutter of I’m coming, Clark, God, relax.

His hand hovered over the countertop.

“You—” His voice cracked faintly. “You always make it better than I do.”

It hit him so slowly it was almost cruel.

You weren’t in the other room.

You weren’t running late from the store.

You weren’t taking a nap on the couch.

You weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

You and your stuff was all destoryed

Your voice stayed gone.

Clark’s breath vanished. Just stolen right out of him.

He whispered your name.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time, like maybe repetition could change reality.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

The scream built inside him before he understood what was happening.

His vision went red at the edges. Heat scorched behind his eyes.

And Clark launched upward so fast the air in the apartment imploded in his wake.

The building shook, and glass shattered as he shot out of his apartment.The city blurred beneath him. Clouds tore open as he ripped through them.

His breath came harsh, ragged, ripped apart by the speed he forced from his own body. He cut through the atmosphere with a fury that left fire trailing behind him.

He didn’t slow, not until the moon rushed up at him in a stark wall of grey and silence.

He slammed down into its surface with a crater-making force that sent dust exploding miles into the airless void.

Clark stared at the jagged landscape beneath him, chest heaving even though he didn’t need the air. Grief and rage tangled inside him so violently he couldn’t separate one from the other.

He clenched his fist. He slammed them into the surface of the moon.

Once.

The ground dented. His rage didn't.

He hit it again. Harder.

A crater split beneath him.

“Why—!?” he shouted, voice vibrating through his bones—the sound didn’t travel, but he felt it shake him from the inside out. “Why didn't I get there faster!”

Another blow.

“Why couldn't I—?!”

He drove his fist down again, knuckles carving stone.

“WHY DIDN’T I SAVE YOU—?!”

He hit the ground again—wild, desperate, blind—with every ounce of strength he’d spent months pretending he didn’t feel anymore. A fissure ripped outward beneath him like the moon itself was breaking for him.

Clark sank forward onto his knees. His fingers dug into the grey dust. He bowed his head until it touched the cold surface.

Tears lifted from his cheeks before they could fall, drifting upward in shimmering beads that floated around him like ghosts.

He just let them go.

Let them scatter into the dark.

While he remained. Breathing in ragged, broken pulls. Not moving. Not thinking. Just existing in the wreckage of what he’d done to the moon’s surface.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Nothing felt real except the ache swallowing him whole.

Except for a sudden breath of something warm brushed the back of his neck.

A warmth he knew better than sunlight.

His head jerked up.

Just the crater. The floating pebbles. The emptiness. He let out a rough, stuttering breath and bowed his head again. He was imagining things. He had to be imagining things. His fingers dug deeper into the dust.

“Clark.”

His entire body went rigid.

The voice wasn’t behind him this time. It was everywhere. Soft. Gentle.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hard enough that his eyelashes trembled.

"Please—don’t—don’t let me hear her if she’s not—”

“Clark,” you whispered again, as if coaxing a frightened animal. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to.

He lifted his head slowly, breath trapped in his chest. The sunlight dimmed and brightened like it was breathing.

And then you were there.

Floating above the crater. Weightless. Soft. Glowing around the edges like you were made of starlight instead of flesh.

Clark’s mouth fell open.

He made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—and his hand shot up like he was scared you’d drift away if he didn’t catch you.

“You’re—you’re—” He choked on the word. “You’re here.”

You smiled gently. A sad, warm curve of your mouth that broke him all over again.

“Hi."

He pushed off the ground too fast, floating up to meet you, his hands hovering inches from your arms, your face, your waist. Afraid to touch you, afraid you’d disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” he burst out, the words tumbling over each other. “I’m so—Gosh—I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I should’ve been faster, I should’ve been there—if I had just gotten there a second earlier, if I had—”

“Clark...” you said softly.

He shook his head, frantic. “I didn’t save you. I didn’t save the one person— the only person—who ever made me feel like—like I was—human.”

He reached toward you again, and this time he touched the back of your hand.

It passed through you like water.

He flinched.

You cupped his cheek anyway—your fingers cool, faint, like moonlight brushing his skin. “I’m not here to make you hurt more.”

“Then—then stay.” His voice cracked, desperate. “I can’t—I can’t lose you again—”

“I’m not staying,” you said gently.

“Don’t say that,” he begged. “Don’t go, I’ll do anything, I’ll—”

Your thumb traced his cheek in the ghost of a touch. “You still have a life. A purpose.”

“I don’t,” he said fiercely. “Not without you.”

“You do,” you whispered. “Because you loved me. And because you still do. Too much to bury it here in the dark.”

He swallowed hard, chest rising unevenly.

“Give it away.”

“…what?”

“Your love.” You floated closer, your forehead almost touching his. “Give it to the world. All of it. The world needs what you gave me.”

“I don’t want to give it away,” he whispered. “It's... was ours.”

“It still is,” you said. “It always will be. But you’re meant to share it now.”

He shook his head helplessly. “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“Then find yourself again. In what we had.”

He pressed his forehead to yours—or tried to. It didn’t fully connect. Just brushed, the faintest pressure.

“I don’t know how,” he whispered.

“I’ll show you.”

Clark lifted his head a fraction.

You leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t a physical thing. More like warm air brushing his mouth. A memory. A dream pressed against his lips.

He chased it desperately, hands moving to cradle your face, though they passed through you again.

He needed it.

Your fingers floated up to touch his chest, right over his heart.

“This is where I am,” you whispered. “Always.”

His face twisted, eyes squeezing shut as a sob ripped out of him.

Your edges flickered.

Faded.

Your fingers thinned into threads of light.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His breath stopped.

“I always loved you,” he said back, voice breaking. “Always.”

You smiled one last time.

Then you dissolved—gently—like mist unraveling in sunlight.

Clark’s hands grasped at empty space.

He stayed there, suspended in the quiet, eyes wet, chest heaving, dust drifting around him like falling snow.

Slowly—he lifted his gaze to the Earth hanging above him.

Its blues and greens blurred through his tears.

He reached out a hand toward the planet. A small gesture. His promise. His beginning.

Then he pushed upward. Stronger than he had been in a long time.

He rose from the moon’s surface, carrying your last touch inside his chest, turning your words into his heartbeat.

He flew toward the world.

The years unfolded over him like a long, living tapestry. His life bent into a rhythm that felt almost holy. He mended, he steadied, he gave. And he kept giving.

He caught a crumbling bridge once, the steel groaning in his hands, the cars rattling above him. A little girl in the backseat of a blue sedan pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he saw the shape of her mouth.

Thank you.

He swallowed hard. “You’re welcome,” he whispered, even though she couldn’t hear him.

Another day, he dropped into a burning hospital, floor after floor collapsing in on themselves. Smoke filled his lungs, heat coating his skin. He tore open a wall and found a nurse shielding a newborn beneath her body. She looked up at him with soot-streaked cheeks, panting.

“Please—help him—”

“I’ve got both of you,” he told her. His voice didn’t shake. It hadn’t in years.

He stood on the steps of the Hall of Justice once, listening as the next generation of heroes argued, teased, and planned. They were loud and bright and so young. He leaned against a column beside Bruce, who had aged in different ways.

“They’ll be good,” Bruce muttered.

“They will,” Clark murmured. “They already are.”

He watched Lois retire. Watched Jimmy marry. Watched Perry step down, and the new editor shake his hand with adoration mixed with terror. His coworkers teased him gently about never aging, never slowing down.

He always smiled politely.

Then he went home to the quiet, to the place where your memory still warmed the walls like a lamp left on in another room. Your picture on the mantle. Your sweater was folded in a drawer that he never opened, but never moved.

“Goodnight,” he’d say softly every night. “I hope I did right today.”

As the decades spun on, and his hair silvered like soft frost along his temples, the city changed. Justice League rookies approached him with reverence, asking for advice. He gave it freely—gentle nudges, quiet encouragements, the way he wished someone had guided him when he’d been lost in himself.

That's when he knew.

He was ready.

He watched Kara laugh in the doorway of her farmhouse one last time, her hair long and bright, streaked silver like his, glowing in the Kansas sun. She hugged him fiercely, as if she could hold time still.

“You could stay longer,” she whispered.

“Trust me,” he promised. “You have so much life to live.”

Krypto leaned against his leg, whining in that low, almost human way. Clark knelt and stroked the old dog’s muzzle.

“You take care of her."

Krypto nudged his palm, as if scolding him for even asking.

He visited Ma and Pa beneath the oak tree. The wind rustled in the leaves like someone flipping through pages. He placed his hand on the cool stone.

“I did my part,” he said quietly. “I'll tell you all about it when I see you again”

He moved on. To your folks next. They had never stopped writing him letters, even after their hands trembled too much to hold pens. They had sent him stories of their days, little joys, memories of you. He had answered every one. Kept them all after they passed.

Your gravesite was always the hardest. He knelt there, fingers brushing the edge of the stone he had carved himself. Weathered now. Smooth from decades of wind.

Silence settled around him like snow.

“I kept you with me,” he continued. “Every day. Every choice.”

His voice thickened.

“I hope… I hope that counts.”

He floated up from the cemetery when he was done, rising slow, like a man already half in another world.

The moon greeted him like an old friend. A familiar, aching pull in his chest guided him to the crater he’d once put into the earth with rage. He sat on the cliff of it. His legs were dangling over the edge. Earth glowed blue in front of him.

He unclipped his cape. Then he let it go, watching it as it drifted into the dark. He didn’t need it anymore.

A warm presence stirred beside him.

He didn’t look. He just knew

“Clark.”

He closed his eyes.

“You came,” he whispered.

“I told you I’d be here,” he felt a warmth press against his chest. “Whenever you were ready.”

He turned his head slowly. You looked exactly as that first day you showed yourself to him—alive in a way that hurt and soothed all at once. He laughed under his breath, a sound wet and startled and overwhelmed.

Your hand reached for him. He took it with both of his.

“Are you sure?” you asked gently. “This is the path you want?”

He thought of the world. Of every life he had touched. Of every dawn he had watched rise alone. Of every moment he had carried the weight of being strong.

And of every night he had whispered your name into the dark.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Sweetheart… I’m sure.”

You smiled at him—soft, tender, knowing. The moonlight glowed through you like warm fog.

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

“Breathe.”

He drew one deep breath, letting it shake through him.

“And now,” you whispered, your voice falling over him like a blanket pulled to his chin, “Let go.”

He let go.

The world slipped away gently, as if it were laying him down to sleep.

When he opened his eyes—

He was standing.

On soft grass.

Beside a lake that shimmered like liquid silver under morning light.

The air smelled of pine and warm water.

He looked down at his hands—young again. Strong again.

He turned.

You stood there.

Whole.

Warm.

Alive.

His breath broke open in his chest.

“Hey,” you whispered.

He walked to you slowly, reverently, like approaching living sunlight.

“Hey,”

He folded you into his arms for the first time in a lifetime—and the universe finally felt right around him.

Sorry?

Taglist (open):

@kawaiioverlord, @onyxxshi, @saaaaaaaaaaam, @kissmxcheek, @cicikent

Masterlist

[jayneluvsu]

so i’m sobbing actual tears right now

[willow-is-a-nerd]

I NEED CLARK SO FUCKING BAD

[bbyxdarlinnnn-deactivated202602]

daily reminder: fuck ice. fuck trump.

[jayneluvsu]

happy halloween:3 🎃

[nhy6ck-deactivated20260222]

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[jayneluvsu]

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[roryheartz]

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[jayneluvsu]

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[nanaslutt]

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