thinking about “you haven’t met all the people who will love you” and like!!! you also haven’t found all the things that will make you happy!!!! there will always be new authors and musicians and artists whose work you will one day discover and love!!!! there will always be new hobbies and skills for you to learn and feel fulfilled by!!! there will always be new things around the corner that will bring sudden and unexpected happiness!!!!!!!!!!!
series masterlist // ex-husband!ryland grace x astronaut!reader
series summary: after an unusually long coma, you wake aboard the hail mary with little memory of your life on earth. as you, grace, and rocky race to save your planets from extinction, your memories (and your feelings for ryland) begin to unravel.
M = mature (18+) | S = suggestive | F = fluff | A = angst | R = romantic | P = platonic
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chapter index:
prologue: come hell or heaven, i won't move [A] - ryland grace wakes to find that only one of his crew mates has survived. the problem? they're still in a coma. (1.1k)
COMING SOON... chapter one: i forgive it all (as it comes back to me) [AR] - after your extended coma, group bedtimes become the new normal. in the past, you reunite with your ex. (0.0k)
tags: drunk reader, reader is touch starved, reader has a good nose (like tanjiro kamado) ˶‘ ͜ʖ ‘˶ , reader and senku are childhood friends (along with taiju and yuzuriha) sfw, fluff, all this fic is just reader touching senku’s skin, color code dialogue cause i like them (future me here, no i don't, i lied, that is before i had to custom color code every dialogue each of them, but it turned out pretty, p.s: had to do it twice cause like, it didn't save, girl whatever), reader's motif color is grapefruit and saffron
summary: after the events of treasure island you decided to indulge yourself to Francois’ bar and get a little touchy with your favorite scientist
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The deck had come alive with the hum of laughter and chatter. People gambling in the brand new casino Ryusui had made for everyone to enjoy as they mingled with the sea breeze as Francois manned their self-named “Bar Francois.”
Glasses clinked, and foam spilled over the lips of makeshift mugs. The first successful batch of beer had been brewed, an achievement worth celebrating after months of endless work.
You leaned over the counter as Francois offered you a smile.
“Would you like your usual, or perhaps something special for the occasion?”
“Mm, I’ll try the beer,” you said, curiosity piqued by everyone’s reactions as they splurge themselves.
Francois blinked, a rare look of surprise crossing their composed face. “You?”
You gave a lazy grin. “It’s history in a cup, right? I’d be a criminal not to.”
The first sip hit you like a wave, bitter at first, tangy, and oddly alive.
The taste deepened as you swallowed, sharp bubbles prickling your tongue before settling into a warm, toasty aftertaste.
It wasn’t sweet, not like Francois’ crafted drinks, but it had character. It was alive, like the ocean air.
“Not bad,” you murmured, taking another gulp that left your throat tingling.
The warmth began pooling in your chest, a cozy fire spreading from your ribs outward.
Somehow, your second mug appeared faster than you remembered asking for it.
You laughed at something Gen said nearby, the sound bubbling up too loudly, too freely. Halfway through the second drink, your chest began to feel tight. A sudden yearning was itching you, your warmth was lonely, like it wasn’t enough anymore.
Your head was floating like the stars, and your feet were moving under you before you fully realized where they were going.
When you saw the scientists facing towards the sea, your chest lurched, pulling you to where the yearning was. His name was the only thing going through your head now, not knowing it slipped from your lips.
“Senkuu~!”
The word came out slurred, but warm…familiar. His body turned, attention fully on you. Senku raised a brow as you stumbled toward him, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed.
He caught you before you tripped, hands firm on your shoulders. “You drank beer, didn’t you?” His tone was deadpan, but you could hear the faint trace of amusement under it.
You blinked slowly up at him, lips curling into a dopey grin. "You smell good.”
Senku froze, muscles stiff under your palms. You reached up anyway, cupping his face in your hands. His jaw was sharp under your fingertips, skin cool from the breeze.
“Oi,” he started, tilting his head back slightly, but your fingers brushed his jawline, thumbs tracing the ridges of his ears. His words caught in his throat.
It was like your senses were on fire. Everything you’d been holding in all the exhaustion, the fear, the small ache of loneliness, spilled out at once. You weren’t thinking. You just needed warmth. You needed something real to hold on to.
You sank against him, forehead pressing into the crook of his neck. His pulse beat steady under your cheek. His breath smelling like the matcha he drank earlier.
The world tilted and slowed all the laughter, all the noise, the taste of beer on your tongue it all blurred until there was only the steady beat beneath his skin.
You breathed him in. The scent of iron, soap, and ozone, you exhaled, your warmth breath sinking into his skin, before you inhaled even deeper, smelling what was rain before it hits the earth cool, sharp, and alive, mixed with faint smoke and salt from the sea. Senku’s scent, hit you hard, dizzying.
It was a scent that made your brain quiet and your chest ache all at once. The air filled with him until the edges of your thoughts began to fray. Grounding you in a way that made your chest ache.
It wasn’t just that you wanted to touch him. It was that you needed to. Like your body had been cold for too long and only now realized what warmth felt like.
It was like you were melted into him without meaning to, arms wrapping around his middle. You fumbled for the hem of his shirt, desperate for something real beneath your fingers, but all you found were the heavy folds of his coat.
You let out a small, frustrated breath, not a whine so much as a quiet plea.
Frowning against his neck, mumbling something incoherent. Your fingers lightly traced the stiff bandages around his forearms, disliking the texture immensely before lightly going over his elbows, up to his biceps.
Your fingers wrapped around his arms, you noticed how much toner they are than they were in the old world, though he ass was still skinny.
He wasn’t built like a warrior, no sculpted strength, no bulk but there was something quietly strong in him, something that lived in the way his muscles held tension even when he stood still.
Your thumbs mapping the tendons under his skin and the muscles that were flexing. You hummed in delight, comfort unfurled in your chest.
Your hands moved up, disappearing into his sleeves until your fingertips brushed his shoulders—
Senku let out a small, startled breath that could have been a chuckle or a sigh.
“Man, you’re a handful when you’re drunk," he muttered, voice low.
Another hum escaped you, unbidden and content, your cheek pressed against the crook of his neck. His hair tickled your temple.
The contact sent a warmth through you so intense it almost hurt like waking up in sunlight after too many days of winter. A tremor of laughter, or maybe relief, escaped you as a tiny hum in your throat, muffled against his neck.
He said something again, you could feel his throat move beneath your lips, but the words barely reached you. You were too lost in the rhythm of him, the way his breathing steadied your own.
Your palms followed instinct rather than reason, the coarse fabric brushing against your wrists as your fingertips found the shape of him. Beneath your palms, the smooth stretch of skin along his back felt cool at first, but the longer you lingered, the more warmth seeped into your fingers.
You traced upwards, following the subtle ridge of his spine, each vertebra rising faintly.
Your fingertips mapped the terrain of him the gentle dips between bone and muscle, the way his scapula shifted beneath your touch when he breathed in, slow and controlled.
You could feel his restraint in every movement, that constant precision he lived by even now, as if his body refused to be anything but calculated.
You pressed a little harder, brushing along the trapezius, where the tension coiled tight a quiet ache he carried from endless nights bent over blueprints and experiments.
The muscle flexed beneath your touch, taut yet trembling, and it almost startled you how human he felt. He wasn’t made of equations or formulas. He was warmth, and pulse, and the faint rhythm of breath.
Your fingers moved in slow, uncertain strokes up and down his back, memorizing, not exploring.
It wasn’t desire that drove you, it was something older, quieter. A hunger for connection. The ache of a touch you hadn’t realized you needed until you found it.
His body wasn’t soft or yielding, it was lean, all bone and wiry strength, yet somehow it grounded you.
You just breathed him in, the scent of science and saltwater filling your lungs.
For the first time in what felt like forever, your body relaxed. The tightness in your chest unfurled. You were warm. Safe. And somewhere in that haze, a giddy sort of joy bubbled up you were alive.
“Senku…” the name left your lips again, this time a quiet breath of relief and longing.
You didn’t even realize your fingers had tightened against him, tracing small, uncertain circles at the base of his neck. He stiffened for half a heartbeat, as if trying to process what exactly was happening and then exhaled, low and unsteady, his voice catching somewhere between disbelief and awkward fondness.
“Oi, what’s with you…” he murmured finally, the words half-hearted and softer than they should’ve been.
You couldn’t. Every nerve in your body was too busy memorizing the feeling of him the faint tremor in his shoulders, the scent of ozone clinging to his skin, the heat radiating through the layers of his coat.
“Senkuuu…” you mumbled, the word half-whine, half-laugh. "You’re so… nice to touch…”
Senku groaned quietly, both hands catching your wrists as you tried to sneak under his coat again. “Alright, alright, that’s enough of the fieldwork, you lightweight.”
Before you could protest, a hand yanked you back by the collar.
“Ha-ha!” Ryusui’s voice burst through the air, full of laughter. “And here I thought I’d be the one drowning in temptation tonight!”
Your vision swayed as Ryusui pulled you upright, one arm slung securely around your shoulders. You blinked up at him, unsteady.
“Mean…” you hiccuped, your lip trembling.
Ryusui grinned. “Trust me, love, I’m doing the world a favor before you start undressing the scientist in front of everyone.”
“I wasn’t—” you tried to argue, but your words slurred together into nonsense.
You struggled weakly against his arm, your body limp and heavy. With surprising ease, you slipped away from him and straight into the next person’s arms — Yuzuriha’s.
“Yuzu!” you wailed, burying your face into her shoulder. “They’re sooo meaaaan!”
Yuzuriha sweat-dropped, one hand patting your back gently, like a mother calming an overgrown toddler. “There, there… It’s okay, you’re just tired.”
Gen leaned over from the sidelines, sipping from his drink with an amused smile. “More like drunk and touch-starved. It’s cute, in a disaster sort of way.”
Chrome whispered to Kohaku, “Did… they just hug Senku? Like, really hug him?”
Kohaku blinked. “They nearly tackled him.”
“Yeah,” Chrome said, “and he didn’t—explode.”
Senku finally exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tch. Alcohol and sleep deprivation — a dangerous chemical combo.” His tone was light, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying amusement. “Guess we’ll need to start regulating bar hours.”
He could still feel the phantom touches of your fingers, goosebumps trailed his skin, unsure if it was from the sea breeze or if it was because of you.
His eyes gazed over at you, you were back to being a happy giggling drunk, going to hug Kohaku.
Shivering trailed inside his body, he was itching to rub over all the parts you touched him. His couldn’t figure out if he hated it or…if it left him wanting more.
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notes: thank you SO SO much for reading! ♡ this is just one piece out of a thousand from the dr stone x reader fanfic I’ve been wanting to write and only been making pieces like this and hope they fit like a puzzle once I put them together.
anyway, you should totally go and read my black butler x reader fanfic on Quotev that I also stopped writing (I’ll get back to it one day 🙏) while I make you wait 3,700 years for my dr stone fanfic
"Hiding your devil fruit from everyone is the only rule. Unless it's your crush."
Fem!reader
Characters: Monkey D. Luffy
Tags: fluff, angst, the timeline starts at Thriller Bark and contains spoilers up to Egghead, mention of Ace's death
Words count: 13k
Notes: Hi! English is not my first language, so let me know if you see any mistake, I would be very grateful <3
The sea obeyed your voice.
Its waters danced and whispered just for you, caressing your feet and soothing your pains, thrilling your soul with its gentle mirages that carried you back home. Pleased to embrace you in its waves once more. Pleased with your return.
The sea waited for you for centuries. Patient. Longing. Tearful.
No soul had been born who could tame its ferocity. The times were divine, rushing to shore without coinciding with him could be a catastrophe. So it forced itself to endure. To tolerate the pain. To tolerate the desire to see him again.
It remained hidden under the wing of a specific family, protected by them on a remote island in Grand Line, for centuries without being disturbed. They passed the word down from parents to children, grandparents to grandchildren. That devil fruit, kept in a locked chest, with its peculiar conch shell shape that glowed in shades of blue and light blue, was not to be consumed.
The fruit would choose its bearer. Like no other, it would sing to attract whoever it desired, until it made them carry an unknown destiny. Anyone who coveted it wrongly would be punished.
And everyone learned to respect it.
You had always been curious. Why was your family the only one who knew about its existence and could take care of it, when there were so many others on the island? Why couldn't anyone else even get close enough to appreciate it? What was known about that devil fruit was passed on by word of mouth. Your aunt had told you about its appearance during a festival in the village, while dancing with laughter, one jump after another, to the rhythm of "don, don, don, don", but she didn't know if it was real either. Someone else had told her about it.
Your grandmother wouldn't let anyone near the old temple on the highest hill on the island. The task of caring for it was relegated to a few women in the family, those who had the gift of hearing. Hearing what? You thought it was nonsense. How could anyone hear a fruit? As a child, you couldn't make sense of it.
But curiosity kept you awake.
And you understood everything at the age of seven.
A festival to an ancient god was being celebrated in the village. Sitting on a bench —a tree trunk cut down by your father—, you admired those present. There it was again. That rhythm. That dance. It was fun, it was playful, it was free. The huge smiles on their faces were something that only that dance could give.
The dance of Nika.
They did it once a month, as if trying to call him, intending him to join in the fun if he saw them, and something inside you told you that this god would do just that. He would join them with a huge laugh. And the party would never end.
But what was happening here was more than just a party. It was a plea. The people of your village and your family believed that he would return to save them. And someone important would come with him.
You shook your head from side to side, playing with the fabric of your white dress when you heard it.
A melancholic voice sang melodies that pressed on your heart. You were too young to understand the longing behind that song, the pain of loss. Its slowness differed from the joy in Nika's rhythm.
You covered your ears, not wanting to hear any more. But it was calling you. It was making you get up from your seat against your will.
Under the watchful gaze of your grandmother, whom you could not see through the sea of people, you made your way towards the forest. The old woman heard the crying in that song, more intense than ever. It was different from what it always whispered to her. Now it was crying out for you.
You followed the path with a grimace. It was lit by small golden lanterns shaped like flowers. Despite your fear of being scolded for entering the forbidden area, you couldn't help but follow that voice. Its broken song gradually changed, becoming a little more cheerful. Enough so as not to break your heart. You wondered if this is what the song of the sirens sounded like, the ones you read about in your book, the ones who lived on gyojin island.
You stopped in front of the temple. How many minutes had it taken you to climb the hill? You had lost track of time while enveloped in those melodies.
Seeing it up close took your breath away. Tall marble pillars surrounded by ivy stood before you. A glass dome revealed the interior of the place, making your blood run cold.
A golden statue of a woman stood in the middle, surrounded by water. Would you sink if you approached it? Or would it be shallow, free to walk towards it? That woman looked up at the sky with her back to you, her arms outstretched, her fingers curved as if touching something.
Was she singing? Could a statue sing? Or was it...? You searched with your eyes until you found it. A chest rested at her feet, surrounded by vines. As if it had never been touched before.
But something in that voice asked you to. Something in that woman's position begged you for something.
You dipped your tiny feet into the water and a sigh of relief escaped from within you when the water only reached your hips. For an adult, it would reach their knees or lower.
You walked across the slimy ground covered in seaweed, pouting in disgust. Your grandmother protected this place, but it seemed she didn't clean it, given its condition.
The singing grew softer as you got closer. The moonlight made the statue look more beautiful, but its golden colour would shine brighter in the sun.
When you reached its feet, which were in front of your face, you raised your hands to the vines, pulling them off one by one. The chest, once freed, looked old. Conveniently, a key lay beside it. You shook your head in confusion. No one had stolen it in centuries, and you had made it there without anyone stopping you. What were they afraid of? It was silly to fear a fruit. Surely it had some foolish power, like the men on the reward posters that arrived every week. There were a few incredible powers, but there were also fruits that seemed bad to you.
You inserted the key into the lock, opening the chest carefully so as not to break it. You widened your eyes in amazement when you saw it. It shone in shades of blue and light blue, shaped like a seashell. So this was what the devil's fruit looked like. You took it in your hands, not knowing that you were being allowed to do so. Not knowing that your destiny was being forged.
Standing by the island's beach, with the celebration behind her, your grandmother smiled softly. The clock was ticking again.
He had already been born and consumed his fruit, and he had chosen you at the same time to accompany him.
With the sudden violence of the sea that night, the people dancing merrily and a little girl spitting in a temple alone, the old woman welcomed the goddess of the sea.
The "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia" had chosen its bearer.
Your growth since that night had been quite an adventure. Your grandmother had told you things, like the name of the fruit and where it came from. The reason why your family had protected it for generations and generations finally had an answer. You were direct descendants of Naia, but the goddess was jealous and refused to choose a woman before the time. You didn't know who she was waiting for, and the old woman didn't have a concrete answer. Only old beliefs that had been instilled in her, which she couldn't vouch for as being true.
But if you were there, in front of her, surrounded by fish that seemed to be talking to you, then there was a chance that he was also in another sea.
The longer you lived in the village, the more miracles happened. The famine ceased with the increasing abundance of fish. Your unconscious attracted large fish and beasts from the Grand Line, which were hunted to feed the villagers. They ate through tears, thanking the sun god for his help, without knowing who was really responsible.
Ships began to stop there. After four years, your voice began to attract sailors, bounty hunters, and pirates. With their visits, the families around you were able to support themselves. The imminent improvement in the standard of living among these villagers caught the attention of the world government. An island was rising and should not remain outside their hands, living according to their laws. Abiding by the rules was the best they could do.
However, no one could accept it. The hatred in their hearts consumed them alive. These people were not the kind who wanted to be protected by the marine or receive the light of the world government by paying tribute. No. These people had their beliefs, beliefs that those above despised. Beliefs for which they would seek to silence them.
Your grandmother knew that your devil fruit would bring trouble. If the legends were true, the search for your existence would be relentless.
A woman with the ability to control the sea was an aberration to everyone who admired her. A forbidden existence hidden like a myth.
But myths had an origin and, in turn, someone who tried to destroy them.
As a very young girl, you had no control over the sea. The strong emotions he was unaccustomed to sent him into a frenzy. Your cries stirred up hurricanes, impossible to stop until your heart was calm again. Your anger violently shook the waves, your sudden outbursts calling forth tsunamis.
Their frequency was not something that the world government —who kept their eyes on the island that was suddenly making a name for itself— could ignore. Marines disguised as sailors or ordinary tourists came and went, reporting what they saw. Was that island changing its magnetic field? After centuries of maintaining the same one? Or was something beyond their control happening?
It was after a huge earthquake and a subsequent tsunami, one that was out of the ordinary, with waves so big that they flooded the coast and left the island without a port, that your grandmother made the decision to expel you. CP0 began prowling the area when you were seventeen. They walked around looking at all the women, with instructions to pay special attention to the youngest ones.
Any who showed abnormalities. Any who seemed to interact unnaturally with the sea. Any who talked to fish.
The one who could be the woman the five elders wanted desperately.
Your grandmother, your aunt, and your mother did everything in their power. Sooner or later, those government agents would find the temple to the goddess Naia, confirming the suspicions of the celestial dragons. That temple, that golden statue facing the sun, was the only one in the world.
Those who knew her believed she had died, leaving no trace of her passage through life, a woman who would never set foot in such a rotten place again. But there she was, laughing in their faces, always hidden, always waiting for the right moment to return.
The three women in your family knew that news of such magnitude would not sit well. Everyone was in danger, not just you. And they were willing to face them as long as they could be reunited.
Your mother pulled you by the hand, all of them covering their mouths to stifle their tired gasps. The forest was the village's domain, illuminated in every corner, trees marked to indicate the paths back home. Your aunt carried a bag of clothes and your grandmother led the way.
They came upon a flooded coastline. Four villagers were holding onto tree trunks, pulling on ropes tied to the boat to keep it steady. They had placed two barrels of provisions inside. You looked at everyone in alarm, not knowing what to say, not wanting to leave.
This island was your home. Everyone had watched you grow up. Why did you have to leave everything behind? Just because of an ancient legend that no one knew was real?
The old woman placed her hands on your cheeks after your aunt had wrapped the bag around your body.
"You must flee, child." She whispered.
You shook your head, frightened. Yes, your devil fruit seemed to control the sea, but you had never sailed. You had never gone out into the world. And you would not be going out onto a calm sea. You lived in Grand Line, and out there were fearsome pirates, the yonko sailed those waters.
"It's for your own good. And for the good of the world." She tucked your hair behind your ear with trembling hands. "One day you'll understand."
"I don't want to go." You whispered, looking at your mother pleadingly.
"It is Naia's will." Your grandmother called your attention again. "You, Y/N, must continue living."
Naia, that mythical goddess again. What did it matter if you were her chosen one for something you couldn't understand?
"Lie. Don't talk about your devil fruit. Don't reveal it to anyone. That way you can survive." Your mother's words squeezed your heart.
"Don't worry about us, we'll be fine." Your aunt said with a smile.
"Destiny will bring the two of you together." Murmured the older woman.
Her kisses on your forehead, the calm sea as the villagers lifted you onto the boat, their hands waving in the distance, your uncontrollable crying.
You didn't know how long you had cried as the small boat sailed on its own course. The sea remained calm around you as it carried you as far away as possible from your native island. An island where government agents searched relentlessly for a young woman who fit the description, interrogating and silently murdering those who refused to cooperate.
At some point, your eyes closed after crying for so long, each tear altering the sea around your island, unknowingly embracing the lifeless bodies of many girls you called your friends, as well as those of adults and elderly women. Among them, your family.
All protecting a goddess who would help a new dawn arrive.
Usopp prepared his bait, ready to catch something. They hadn't put anything in the aquarium for days. Luffy had put another shark in, and it had eaten all the fish, leaving them without provisions, without meat. Their captain was more unbearable than ever, and he had only gone a day and a half without eating meat.
He cast his line, humming his song as he tapped his feet. The sun burned his skin, and the sea seemed particularly calm that day. Would he catch anything if no fish came near the worms he had stolen from Robin's garden?
Zoro left his weight on the ground, opening the window of the crow's nest.
"Oi, there's something shining in the water." He announced.
Usopp raised his fishing rod, looking for his binoculars. Nami and Robin put down their magazines and books and stood up.
"Something shiny? Treasure?" Nami asked, smiling.
"I want to see!" Luffy shouted, opening the kitchen door. His rubber arms stretched out to the deck railing, throwing himself towards it to get there faster.
Robin smiled as she watched him jump up and down excitedly. Soon the others arrived, crowding around the railing. Chopper was lifted up by Zoro, who sat him on his shoulder so he could see better. Sanji stood next to them, smoking.
"We have to catch it!" Said Luffy.
"Oi, Luffy, wait." Usopp murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. "First we need to see what it is from a distance."
"We can always throw it back into the sea." Added Robin.
"You're so scary!" Shouted Usopp.
"Luffy, bring that shiny thing over here." Ordered Nami to the rubber boy, looking excitedly at the glint in the distance.
The captain's arms stretched out as far as they could, pulling the small boat towards the Sunny Go at a speed that the sea offered no resistance to. Refusing to protect her from him.
"I see barrels!" Chopper shouted.
"Super!" Franky celebrated.
"Will they have food? I hope it's in good condition." Said Sanji.
"I hope it's treasure..." Nami said dreamily, clasping her hands together with a huge smile.
"I hope it doesn't kill us." Usopp lamented, thinking it was a trap.
"We can always throw it back into the sea." Robin repeated.
Luffy blinked, tilting his head to one side. Inside the boat was a girl, sleeping as if she weren't in the Grand Line. He pressed his lips together when he noticed the trail of tears on her cheeks. Her eyelashes were still wet, as if she had never stopped crying, even in her dreams.
"Chopper, we have to help her."
The seriousness in his tone alerted the crew. They looked closely, the sun no longer dazzling their eyes, revealing the figure trembling as she hugged a bag.
"We have to get her on board!" The crew's doctor ran to Franky after Zoro brought him down.
They all worked together without asking any questions yet.
There was a girl in their infirmary. A girl who had suddenly appeared amid those treacherous waters, sleeping as if she didn't care about the danger of her actions. A girl who was burning with fever while the little reindeer placed damp cloths on her forehead.
Sanji made tea for everyone while they waited for news from the doctor, curious about her identity.
"I checked her belongings. There was nothing with her name on it. Just clothes and food." Robin commented.
Nami tucked a strand of her short hair behind her ear and sighed.
"All we can do is wait for her to wake up."
"How did she survive?" Murmured Zoro, leaning against the kitchen wall with his arms crossed.
"It's a mystery. Falling asleep in Grand Line with all the pirates around who could have killed her..." Robin shook her head.
"Lucky we found her." Nami acknowledged.
Sanji was holding back, but the soft smile on his face and the multiple turns he made while serving tea told everyone how happy he was with the presence of another woman in the crew. The swordsman insulted him under his breath, earning himself a kick, and then starting a fight.
Everyone ignored them, accustomed to their behaviour. As the hours passed, uncertainty grew among those present. They continued with their activities while you were being treated. All that remained was to wait for you to wake up and tell them about yourself.
You opened your eyes slightly, looking around in confusion. It wasn't your boat. There was no captivating sky above you. There were no waves rocking your body to calm your crying.
You sat up a little on the examination table, leaning on one elbow. The two lamps that illuminated the area provided good lighting. On your left were two small shelves with bottles, their labels showing you the names of their contents. Medicines. Looking to your right, a single desk stood with more medical instruments. Laboratory tubes with different coloured caps, a stone mortar, many books and posters with drawings, from lungs to bones.
But what caught your attention most was the creature sitting in the chair. It looked like a stuffed animal. You had never seen anything like it on your home island.
"Oh! You're awake!" A shrill voice startled you.
Did that stuffed animal talk?
"What are you?" You asked, raising your eyebrows. "Can you talk? Where am I?"
"I'm the doctor for this crew." He climbed onto a stool next to you to examine you.
You seemed to be feeling better. Sanji could prepare something to boost your strength.
"A pirate crew?" You whispered fearfully.
The worst-case scenario was being captured by pirates. You mentally berated yourself for not being more careful. For falling asleep. For not begging harder to stay at home.
"Wait here." Said the little one, adjusting his tiny doctor’s coat as he left what looked like the infirmary.
You found him cute, but you weren’t going to admit it. You had to escape, not succumb to this creature. You found your sandals next to the examination table and put them on. You climbed down, making as little noise as possible, and opened the door again. You found yourself on the deck, its grass making you gasp, but you covered your mouth so as not to be discovered.
You had to survive. You had to hide. That's what your grandmother would have wanted. Your mother. Your aunt. They had all given you the chance to live. You just hoped they were all right.
You ran towards the deck in search of your boat, but growled when you didn't see it.
"Wait! Don't jump!" A female voice shouted behind you.
You turned around fearfully. A beautiful woman with short orange hair was approaching you slowly, careful not to scare you any more.
"I'm Nami. The navigator of this crew." She introduced herself with a sweet smile.
"Am I on a pirate ship?"
"We're not like other pirates." The woman assured you.
"We're good!" Shouted the doctor behind her. "And you shouldn't be out of bed. You could get sick again."
"My angel, allow this cook to be your slave and treat you like the princess you are." Said a man crouching in front of you with a bowl of soup. It smelled good. Did he say slave?
You blinked in confusion.
"Why don't you become my slave and, as your first order, jump off the ship?" Said a man with green hair and two katanas at his waist.
The blond's eyebrow twitched and he turned towards the swordsman, kicking him.
"You're going to scare her." Said a melodious voice. A woman with black hair and bangs looked at you with a sweet gaze.
"You're not going to kill us, are you?" Asked a man with a long nose hiding behind the black-haired girl.
"I thought you were going to kill me."
"Usopp is afraid of cockroaches. You could kill him with that before he tries anything." Teased the orange-haired girl.
"Oi, Nami, why are you telling her that!?"
You watched them interact for a few minutes. They were... funny. Like a little family. They didn't look like the pirates you read about in your books or in the newspaper. The dreaded Rocks D. Xebec, the mighty Whitebeard, the youngest yonko Shanks. They were all intimidating, with powerful crews, but these pirates were strange.
You smiled softly, unaware of the gaze of a certain rubber boy sitting on the lion's head.
His eyes, curious about the girl in front of him, tried to find something he had seen before. Some trace of those tears that soaked your cheeks, as if the pain you carried was greater than you wanted to show. What you hid inside you would one day explode, but until then, until you let him see it, he only wanted one thing from you.
"Join my crew!" He shouted from above. "That way you won't have to go on that little boat."
You looked up, and the air around you seemed unreachable, forbidding you to have it as you lost yourself in that smile, so bright as it melted into the setting sun.
It wasn't like you to trust so quickly. It wasn't like you to wander around with your eyes closed, without trying to figure out other people's intentions. But nothing in his gaze, in their gazes, showed you any hostility or malice. That young man who stood above everyone else as their captain had a calming aura. As if everyone would be fine by his side. As if even the greatest dangers could not disturb them with him by their side.
You knew you could have refused that day. Sailed alone until you found another island. But wherever you went, you would carry the danger with you.
And along with them, you discovered that the danger was represented by their captain.
On your first day after agreeing to join, everyone introduced themselves to you. The doctor was called Chopper, a cute blue-nosed reindeer who loved telling you medical facts, eating cotton candy, and hated the heat. He knew a lot about medicinal herbs and had an incredible dream.
The beautiful black-haired woman was Nico Robin, wanted by the World Government for being the only survivor of Ohara. She was an archaeologist and her knowledge of everything dazzled you. They told you that they had defied the World Government to save her life, and your heart beat faster.
If they knew that CP0 was after you, would they fight for you? Could you be that important to them?
The navigator, Nami, had been part of the crew from the beginning. She liked to buy pretty clothes and treasures. But what fascinated you most was her knowledge of the weather, her ability to anticipate the sea. You didn't need to announce the whispers of those waters if she could interpret them.
The long-nosed guy, Usopp, served as a sniper. His weapon confused you, forcing you to shut your mouth when you saw him use it. He never missed a single shot, always hitting the target. Nami and Robin would bet, and the short-haired girl always won because she trusted him.
The green-haired man was Roronoa Zoro, who had earned a reputation as a pirate hunter. He was serious and slept a lot, but when he laughed, he laughed heartily. He also had a strange obsession with annoying the blond man. The cook with the weird phrases and compliments, Sanji. His meals were a delicacy, and he had taken the time to ask you what your favourite was so he could make it and make you smile.
The man who only wore swimming trunks was the ship's carpenter, Franky. He had built the Sunny Go, and you considered it a work of art. You complimented the aquarium, and the area would possibly become your favourite.
And the captain, Monkey D. Luffy. That boy with his silly rubber devil fruit that made you smile. He was cheerful, playful, and funny. If everyone was here, he must be someone trustworthy.
Everything about him caught your attention.
As the days passed, you allowed yourself to feel comfortable around them. Perhaps this wasn't what your grandmother would have preferred, but if these people were enemies of the world government, then there was no safer place for you and your true identity.
No one could find a faceless girl with forbidden abilities, let alone imagine that she was now a pirate.
You told them what you could about yourself. Saying your name or talking about where you were born was not a challenge. These people did not judge you or pry into your past, not if it did not directly affect them. You discovered that they tolerated being mocked, but they did not tolerate anyone talking to or touching their friends. It was a silent respect for one another, a fondness that went beyond understanding. They were friends, they were where they needed to be. Where they belonged.
And just as everyone had their role in the crew, you couldn't really find yours.
They didn't force you to learn how to fight like an expert, but they wanted to teach you the basics so you could defend yourself.
You couldn't reveal the truth about your devil fruit. You had only mentioned that you had one, but you didn't know its powers. You had never used it to attack, as you had never been forced or needed to do so. You had never seen what it limited you to and what it promised you. With the "Hito Hito no Mi, model: Naia", you could only hear fish and sea creatures. And there was something else. Something you had discovered that embraced you in your darkest moments.
The addition of Brook —a skeleton who played various instruments and sang, which almost gave you a heart attack when you saw him— helped a lot to maintain a façade. His devil fruit had worked after he died. Everyone assumed that yours would awaken when the time was right.
Living day to day, joke after joke, disaster after disaster, was relaxing you.
You played with water pistols with everyone, shared clothes with Nami and Robin (and at night you spoiled each other with face masks and massages), you laughed at Sanji and Zoro's fights, rejected the cook's attempts to take you on a date, played guessing games about what was inside Chopper's laboratory tubes to make him smile, gave Brook ideas for songs while you drank tea together, joined in Franky and Usopp's shooting competitions, betting on who would hit the target. Always trusting the sniper, winning berries that you shared with Nami.
Luffy taught you your little training sessions to learn how to defend yourself. More than once he found you staring at him blankly, thinking you didn't understand how to throw a good punch, when in reality you were just mesmerised. Enchanted by his joy. By his smile. By his disposition. By his beauty.
"You have to bring one arm back and then push with the other! Like this!" He said, frowning in concentration.
Nami and Robin watched them, both leaning against the railing on the upper floor, outside the room the three of you shared.
"Luffy always gets like this when he decides to take on a pupil..." Sighed the navigator. "Luffy, Y/N isn't a kung fu dugong!"
The rubber boy looked at you.
"You're not going to make it?" He lamented, lowering his arms. "Zoro! Lend her one of your katanas!"
"No way." Muttered the swordsman without opening his eyes, trying to sleep.
Preparing your mind and body to improve your defence, those weak blows you used to deliver, was something you never imagined you would have to do when you lived in your village. Keeping up with your captain and the crew's cook was torture. Kicks to the head, hips, legs. Punches to the chin, stomach, nose. They were trying to teach you something you could use in a complex situation, if you didn't have time to hide. Which seemed silly to you.
Luffy's dream was to become the pirate king.
A noble dream. A dream for the brave.
He talked to you about freedom, about how the freest man in the world would be the one who became the pirate king, and you listened to him. He would sit next to you after training, when Sanji left them alone to prepare a snack at sunset. The rubber boy talked about everything and nothing. The words flowed from him as if from an inexhaustible source.
In a short time, you got to know his older brother, Ace, who, impressively, was the commander of Whitebeard's second division. A certain Dadan who raised them both alongside some mountain bandits. A young woman named Makino who always brought them clothes and taught them manners. His grandfather Garp, who served as a vice admiral in the marine and always wanted to force him to join. The yonko Shanks, who was the original owner of his straw hat, with whom he had a mission to return it when he surpassed him. And his brother Sabo, who died as a child and whom he missed madly.
Luffy talked and talked, filling your silences, smiling at you when you said something. Patiently waiting for you to talk about yourself. Eagerly waiting for you to open up. For your freedom by his side. Because that was what he wanted most for his friends. For them to be free.
But what chance of freedom could he give them if he was suffering so much?
His reality hit him like cold water. He was there, and yet he wasn't.
His world was falling apart.
He had lost them all in Sabaody. He believed he was strong, he believed he could overcome anything with enough courage, with enough confidence. If he had them by his side, he could overcome anything that came his way. He would fight for his dream, for the dreams of his friends, for the dreams of the people he met along the way.
He would do everything possible to put a smile on their faces.
So why were they determined to take his smile away? Why did they make them disappear before his eyes? Why did they let him smile broadly when he saved his brother, only to force him to hold him in his arms as he whispered his last words? Why did they have to kill Ace? Why?
Luffy was devastated. Those who were present when he awoke heard his cries of agony in the jungle. His pleas for Ace. His questions about his whereabouts.
He banged his body against the trees. His head against the rocks. He cried uncontrollably, asking, begging, pleading. A soft "thank you for loving me" repeated over and over in his mind, breaking him as he hugged himself.
It was Jinbe who pulled him out of the constant spiral his thoughts were caught up in. The doubts that gnawed at him were stagnating. Luffy wanted to be strong. He wanted to be strong enough not to lose anyone else. He wanted to be strong enough to carry his brother's will with him so that one day he could look up at the sky and smile at him, showing him that he had succeeded. He had become the king of pirates.
The news of Whitebeard's and his commander's deaths spread around the world. It received positive reactions from those who feared them and had been harmed by them. Fear spread throughout the territories that had been protected by this powerful crew. But those who suffered the most were the small family who had raised and watched these brothers grow up in Foosha.
Holding the newspaper in your hands, you read and reread the news. Just like everyone else in the crew, you wanted to be by his side. You could feel where he was. The sea whispered it to you, and you were impulsive. You never measured your actions. You never said enough to yourself. So you stole a small boat on that desolate island where you had ended up after their separation in Sabaody.
You let the sea guide you without a log pose, leading you to your captain. After a few days, you ignored the new newspaper announcing that Luffy had returned to the scene of the tragedy. Two years. You would all be reunited in two years. But you couldn't not go to his side.
You wanted to give him something to hold on to. Something that would give him calm and strength while everyone waited for their reunion.
The sea beasts cleared your path and escorted you somewhere. It took you three days to reach a jungle island. You got off your boat, nervously smoothing your white shirt. You trusted the sea. It wouldn't be wrong. But if Luffy was in this place, how would you get to him without being killed by one of those beasts growling in the distance? Sanji had taught you a few kicks, and your captain a few punches, but you were still weak.
This island was covered in vegetation. The trees stood proudly, as tall as if they were competing with each other to be the first to reach the sunlight. The plants with strange leaves were striking, to the point that something in your mind told you not to touch them. And in the distance, threatening to erupt, you could see three volcanoes.
You entered the jungle, startled by the sound of quick, heavy footsteps running towards you. You looked to your side and your scream echoed through the trees.
A larger-than-normal tiger was approaching you, baring fangs as long as your arm. You froze in fear, falling to the grass as you closed your eyes when it lunged to bite.
"Young lady? I don't know how you got here, but this is no place for beautiful girls."
You opened your eyes when death did not come, and instead there was an elderly man adjusting his glasses in front of you, smiling sideways. The tiger lay between you both, unconscious.
"Old man Rayleigh! Where are you?"
The speed with which you stood up impressed the man in front of you, whose name was Rayleigh. Rayleigh? You looked at him again. He closed his eyes, a gentle smile on his face, crossing his arms. You had read about him. You had read everything about the pirate king and his crew.
"Huh? Y/N?" You looked behind the dark king and there he was. Your captain, completely bandaged, looking at you in surprise. "Y/N!"
His movements were, all in all, normal. He didn't use his powers as he ran towards you and wrapped you in his arms. He seemed to be careful with his body, and he certainly needed to be.
"What are you doing here? How did you get here? How are the others? We were supposed to meet in two years!" His excited voice as he pulled your body close to his using what little strength he had devastated you.
You hugged him back, careful not to disturb any areas where the injury was more severe. You felt a slight tremor in his body as he asked a thousand questions, not giving you time to answer.
Rayleigh watched the two of you thoughtfully, Jinbe joining him at his side, having felt a sudden calling.
"I came by boat." You whispered.
"The little boat? That's dangerous." Said Luffy.
"Young lady, you crossed the Calm Belt and overcame all those sea beasts in a simple boat? You must be very strong." Rayleigh inquired.
"It's not that." Jinbe wanted to say, but the words reached no one but you in your mind.
Your eyes quickly found him, and he smiled at you.
"Oi, Y/N, Y/N, are you going to stay?" Luffy asked with a huge smile, capturing your full attention.
"No. I'd be interrupting whatever is going on here."
"You need to train, you're still weak." He teased.
"I'm not!" You complained.
But you were. The right-hand man of the Pirate King and the first son of the sea smiled amusedly. One, knowing the whole story. And the other, having grown up with a legend.
The sun and the sea belonged to each other. And the sun and the sea were unknowingly facing each other.
"If you don't mind, I have a proposal for you, miss Y/N." Said the gyojin.
Luffy and you stopped arguing and looked at him.
"I would like to train you in gyojin karate."
"Gyojin karate? I'm bad with my fists." You muttered, embarrassed.
"That would be great, Jinbe!" Said Luffy, picking his nose. "But doesn't it only work with gyojin? Will she turn into a mermaid?"
"She'll make it work better than anyone else." Said Rayleigh, walking towards a campfire. "I'll give you a month to talk and for Luffy to recover. Then you'll leave with Jinbe. Is that alright with both of you?"
Luffy nodded, dragging you by the hand towards the campfire.
In a month, he and you grew closer. You discovered all kinds of beetles, a hobby of his that you loved. You made them fight, betting on which one would win, groaning in frustration when you lost. You could never beat him when he had the advantage of knowledge over you.
You fought over the food Rayleigh hunted, receiving teasing from the adult who quickly grew fond of you. In his eyes, you were a sweet girl who needed to bring out that hidden strength. Jinbe only scolded Luffy when he bit your hand before you could take some meat.
It caught your attention how in the mornings your captain was a cheerful boy, giving a huge smile to anyone, but at night he would break down. You slept separately. Rayleigh used to cover him with his cape, and Jinbe covered you with his. But when no one was looking, when they went to the island's shore to talk in private, Luffy would move.
He sought refuge in your arms. He didn't ask for permission. He didn't ask questions. He didn't speak. All you felt were his bandaged arms wrapped around your waist and his face against your chest. If tears wet your shirt and silent sobs shook his body, you said nothing. You stroked his hair silently until he fell asleep, and only after making sure he was, did you sleep yourself.
It was the morning after a nightmare woke him up that you made your decision.
You had done this three or four times in your life. You weren't sure you could do it, but that was the only reason you had visited Rusukaina.
On the shore, you took off your sandals and put your feet in the water. The weakness of seawater, which must bother all users of the devil's fruit, never bothered you. When they said it was an anomaly, this was why.
You stretched your hand out over the water and it rose just ten centimetres. You clenched it into a fist and opened it again. Fifteen centimetres. You closed it again and the water fell, splashing as it formed a puddle. A puddle in the sea. The water was mirrored, confirming your success.
"How can you be there if you ate a devil fruit?"
You looked up, frightened.
Luffy looked at you confused, his head tilted to one side and his lips pursed.
"You didn't eat one then?"
"Luffy..."
"I saw you lift the water."
"It must have been your imagination." You said, smiling nervously.
"No. Earlier on the Sunny Go, I saw you attract the fish. I thought it was Camie, but Camie doesn't eat her friends."
You remained silent.
"It must be great to be able to swim with a devil fruit!" He laughed as he approached you. "What were you doing with the water? Something like fium and splash!"
You scratched the back of your neck while the bandaged boy moved his hands in exaggerated movements. That was just how he was. And you were becoming more attached to him than usual. The way he explained things with the sounds they made made you smile.
"If I tell you, it will be a secret between us."
"Are you going to show me your treasure?" He asked, his eyes sparkling.
"Something like that."
You took his hand, pulling him close to you. You both looked out at the puddle in the sea, so much like a mirror.
With the end of the month and the promise to meet again in two years, you parted ways. The truth about your devil fruit was kept by your captain, who smiled happily at learning more about you. Happy at how little by little you were opening up to them. To him.
He begged you for different tricks with water, bursting into laughter when the sea water weakened him. He understood why Jinbe had to be the one to train you, eager to know how strong you would be in two years. He was saddened when, at night, he no longer had your warmth by his side and your caresses on his hair to soothe his pain and trauma.
But he took refuge in your gift.
That puddle you had created in the sea was trapped in a seashell. You had taught him how to take the enchanted water out and put it back in, with no limit on its use.
He believed it was the best thing in the world after his hat, his brothers, and his crew.
His lonely nights were filled with laughter by the sea. Laughter that had previously only existed in his memories, but which he could now hear and see. The puddle formed mirages, reflecting his memories.
He saw Ace. He saw Sabo. He saw the three of them running through Mount Colubo. Hunting, playing, fighting. He cried at everything he witnessed. Just hearing his brothers being happy, Sabo counting the points in their training sessions, Ace teasing him for being weak, his taunts at seeing his older brother embarrassed when receiving compliments from Makino. It all made his heart ache.
The two years passed more quickly than the crew had expected. The strength they had all gained, their new skills and their new appearances were something to be appreciated.
Your training with Jinbe on a remote island in order to hide your identity had been laborious. You were good at gyojin karate. Your devil fruit responded to you with ease now. You could defend yourself and attack without relying on others, but the adult had told you that you still had a long way to go. The Hito Hito no Mi would not stop there. You still had to awaken it. You still had to learn more with it, without limiting yourself. You could do anything you could imagine with enough determination.
You smiled amusedly when you saw Nami sitting at the bar, drinking alone. You approached her from behind, hugging her and whispering in her ear.
"Are you free tonight?"
The woman, now with long hair, shuddered when she recognised the voice and turned around with a smile.
"Y/N!" Her arms wrapped around you in a big hug. "It's been so long! You look amazing!"
"You look beautiful, Nami." You said, sitting down next to her with a smile.
"Ladies, would you like me to buy you a drink?"
You both turned towards the voice with disinterest, your expressions instantly changing when you recognised it. Usopp was smiling, looking more confident than ever. Nami and you rushed to hug him, starting to talk about everything the three of you had done in those two years. You talked a little about your training, saying that you were now good at karate, proud of your attacks.
As the minutes passed, you met up with the others again.
The Sunny Go was still in the same place you left it, without a single scratch. Seeing most of the crew filled your heart with joy. Those people who had welcomed you with open arms two years ago were finally in front of you again.
Franky whistled and complimented the beautiful women in front of him. His appearance had changed a lot since the past, but he was approached by Usopp, who looked at him excitedly and asked all sorts of questions. Chopper, wearing a new hat and looking cuter than ever, jumped around and hugged Robin excitedly. He had missed everyone dearly. Robin, more beautiful than ever with her long hair, talked about her days with the Revolutionary Army.
Everyone looked healthy, but above all, they looked happy. Happy to be back where they belonged.
But someone was missing.
And just thinking about seeing him again made your heart race wildly inside your chest, wanting to escape.
"I can't wait to see how much Luffy has changed since last time!" Usopp exclaimed with a smile from ear to ear. "I'm so excited to see him!"
"Me too." Said Robin.
You nodded silently, smiling fondly. When the assumption was made that he might have gotten himself into trouble, Chopper offered to go find the three remaining members. The moment the little one left, an irreplaceable presence fell from above.
Brook had left behind his life as a world-renowned musician to return to his beloved friends. They all welcomed him with smiles.
"And I thought you couldn't get any more beautiful…" Commented the skeleton, looking at the three women. "Well… Two years have passed."
He sat down on a barrel and a few strings of his guitar resonated in the air.
"Would you all be so kind and show me your panties?"
"No way!"
Nami kicked him away, while Robin and you laughed.
"Oi! Guys!"
You looked up just as his voice reached your ears. Your big smile matched those of the others, but the sparkle in your eyes hid the longing in your heart, those feelings that had blossomed when you spent a month together, completely alone, sleeping in each other's arms every night. Those feelings you tried to fight, repeating in your mind like a mantra that they would pass if you didn't see him, breaking down when you dreamed of his smile or when you thought of his reaction to seeing you again.
You stayed behind the others with a sudden blush on your cheeks.
You had never seen him without his multiple bandages. And now there he was, stepping onto the deck of the Sunny Go while greeting everyone, wearing an open red shirt that revealed that huge scar.
Luffy had gained muscle. He looked stronger. More confident. And yet, you could see that he was the same as always, that his strength and confidence were centred on the people around him.
The rubber boy looked for you, smiling when he saw you.
Neither of you spoke, at least not out loud, pretending that nothing had happened between you.
The journey to Fishman Island had been quite an adventure. Seeing the underwater world left you speechless. Holding onto the railing, you admired the different schools of fish that surrounded the ship from time to time, circling twice before swimming away. You wanted to reach out and feel them against your skin, but that would have exposed you. The sea water did not weaken you, and the crew knew you had an “unused” devil fruit.
"I think they're greeting you." You looked to your side, to that warm presence.
Luffy was looking at a school of pink fish that had come up to your face to look at you from the other side of the bubble.
"Yes?" You said, amused.
"We could eat them."
"Don't even think about it." You scolded him.
"But you're not a mermaid!"
"But they talk to me. They're friends."
"Friends aren't for eating." He muttered, pressing his lips together.
You giggled admiringly at the little pout he made as his stomach growled. That soft sound from you disturbed the sea animals around the Sunny Go, who were happily swirling around.
"Are there always so many fish? How cool!" Said Usopp, standing next to you.
You snuggled up to Luffy a little, pretending not to know anything. Luffy moved his mouth into a pout to one side, also pretending not to know.
"You're bad at lying." You whispered.
"I'm not." He whispered back.
You laughed, leaving him with Usopp.
Fishman Island was a dreamlike place. Your devil fruit seemed comfortable there, and the mermaids and gyojin looked at you excitedly.
The powerful goddess of the sea, Naia, stood before them.
The legend told for generations spoke of how she was always accompanied by a man. A clingy man who never left her side. A playful man who always made her laugh. A selfish man who never refrained from looking at her with love and wanting her for himself.
That man was the sun god.
They said that when they separated, the goddess cried so much that her tears disturbed the sea. The catastrophe caused by the forced breakup of their love made her sleep for centuries. And at some point, when the sun rose again, she would wake up.
Mothers and children never stopped talking about how they, the inhabitants of Fishman Island, would be the first to recognise her. After all, Naia was a kind of mother to that race.
Everyone wondered who the man accompanying you would be.
Nami and Robin watched amused as the little mermen, mermaids, and gyojin children clung to you shamelessly, asking you to play with them. You had no idea how to refuse. Throughout the banquet, you were here and there, performing water tricks hidden from your crew, entertaining the little ones who were excited by the slightest thing you did.
Jinbe, happy to see your progress and how you were doing in the water, smiled as he drank his sake.
Everyone was having a good time. Everyone except for a rubber boy who occasionally remembered that you weren't by his side and, capriciously, pouted. He calmed down again when they gave him meat, enjoying the party.
You sat down next to him, exhausted. You didn't know what other tricks to do for those children. You took a sip of sake, on the verge of spitting it out when another gyojin child came up in front of you.
"Oi, kids, she's mine for now." Said Luffy, frowning and taking a bite of meat.
You blushed, trying to drink the sake faster. Robin raised an eyebrow at his words, giving the orange-haired woman beside her an inquiring look. They both knew how possessive the rubber boy could be. His hat and his friends were equally important to him. But that phrase… That tone was different.
The impact his words could have on one's life or day was foreign to Luffy. Noticing that what he unconsciously said brought a revolution was not something he cared about.
He continued as if nothing had happened.
And so, his normal behaviour over the following days came as no surprise to anyone. The navigator and the archaeologist watched you both closely, knowing that there was something else going on between you.
Even though your captain sat next to you at breakfast, fighting with you over the portions you hadn't eaten yet (something he would do with anyone), there was something strange about it. The natural way you would slap his hand and growl at him. The way he would bite your hand hard, making you cry out. They did not remember the two of you being so close before Sabaody, two years ago.
You had not had time to develop such a friendship.
And it did not seem like a simple friendship.
One night, when you hadn't yet come to your room to sleep with them, they talked.
"Seriously, if those two are a couple and they didn't tell us..." Whispered Nami.
"I don't think they are. In fact, I think that's where they're headed." Robin refuted.
"If Luffy feels something for her, he won't notice." Growled the navigator, burying her face in her pillow.
The black-haired woman smiled as she sat on her own bed.
"We just have to give them time." She murmured.
"We have to keep an eye on them."
"Without interfering." Robin concluded.
Island after island you visited in the future, day after day that passed, both women decided to give you privacy, paying attention only during dinners. As if reviewing the day, looking for some sign of progress.
It was amid the heat of the flames and the volcanoes about to erupt in Punk Hazard that Robin noticed the first detail: Luffy talked to you like he didn't talk to anyone else.
The heat was unbearable, you could barely stand that kind of hell, ignoring that your captain now looked like a centaur and shouted excitedly that he liked having four legs. If you looked closer, you noticed that the ones at the back, which had just been attached, were barely working. They flew through the air because Luffy's legs did all the work.
You wiped the sweat from your forehead for the fourth time when the smiling boy approached you. He leaned over to you, whispering in your ear.
"Why don't you make something like a sphere of water and hydrate yourself?"
"I can't. There's no source of water nearby." You whispered.
"Your sweat."
You parted your lips, not believing what he had said. Use your sweat? And why was he looking at you like that? With his brow slightly furrowed, as if he had said the most serious, intelligent and obvious thing in the world. You smiled amusedly, patting his shoulder.
Robin noticed it again when all of you arrived on the other side of the lake, where the island became wintry. The small group was shivering from the cold, freezing after falling into the water. The archaeologist sighed as she felt her body warm up, turning to check that everyone was okay, raising her eyebrows briefly in surprise.
Her captain was wrapping a coat around your body, as if it were a practised movement. Neither of you knew that Luffy had actually watched others do this and wanted to try it himself.
Because that's what people who loved someone else did, right? Give them a coat so they would never be cold. Rayleigh had done it for him when they trained together. Hancock had lent him hers to get to Sabaody.
In his mind, if you cared about someone, you should give them a coat.
Although he knew very well why he only wanted to give it to you.
During the banquet, when you walked away to comfort Chopper, who was frightened by Trafalgar Law, the two women sat down to exchange information. Nami hadn't seen anything unusual, so she was surprised to hear about her captain's actions towards you.
The navigator became frustrated when she couldn't stay in Dressrosa, feeling like she was missing out on everything. Robin promised to keep her informed when they met again.
And so she did.
You had signed up with him for the coliseum tournament, wearing one of the many gladiator outfits. Luckily, you had been placed in a different block from Luffy, saving you from a difficult fate. It wasn't time for your competition yet when Zoro came looking for the two of you.
The urgency with which you began searching for the exit made you anxious. Outside, it would soon be chaos, but the thought of Luffy abandoning one of the few physical reminders he had of his brother made your heart ache. You wished you could get it for him, but he had forbidden you to do so. If he left, you would go with him.
You stopped in your tracks for a few seconds when you realised there was nowhere to escape. Encountering Bartolomeo and Bellamy only confirmed your suspicions. It was all a trap and you were trapped in the coliseum, only he knew the way out.
"Luffy senpai, what will happen to the Mera Mera no Mi?" Asked the green-haired man, staring at the wall.
"The lives of my comrades are more important."
You bit your lower lip. A physical reminder of Ace that he couldn't have. A physical reminder that would give him a glimpse of his time in the world, something that would show him that he was there. You could stay in the coliseum without any problems. Win it, take it away in its chest, keep it safe, and run away with it until you could give it to Luffy...
Luffy tugged on your little finger without looking at you to pull you out of your thoughts. Bartolomeo talked non-stop, still facing the wall, about how he had always planned to win it for him. Because he admired him. He admired the whole crew and would do anything for any of you, but especially for the young man next to you.
You turned to look back when approaching footsteps interrupted you. You frowned at the man. He was dressed like a noble would be. And he wore a custom hat.
"I won't let you keep the Mera Mera no Mi, Straw Hat Luffy."
"What are you talking about, idiot?" Bartolomeo growled, walking towards him. "I don't know who you think you are, but to you he is Luffy senpai. Respect him!"
The green-haired man continued talking, trying to intimidate him, but that man was not fazed. He was calm, not taking his eyes off the boy you loved. You began to frown.
"I've known all that for a long time." Said the man, pushing Bartolomeo away.
You stood in front of Luffy, trying to protect him when he started to approach. Your right hand took a familiar gyojin karate stance, and something in the blond's gaze seemed to sparkle in recognition. The rubber boy stood in front of you again, hating that you were protecting him.
But what happened next was something neither of you were prepared for. You stepped aside, your lower lip trembling, unable to interrupt them.
You could only watch your rubber boy crying as he hugged him. His sobs were loud, letting out more than he had allowed himself to do at your side. He apologised. He repeated to the blond that everything was fine and that he shouldn't apologise. The older one thanked him for staying alive.
And you were broken, thanking whoever for this joy in his life.
Living two years of his life believing that he had lost his two older brothers must have been the greatest torture.
In Zou, despite the situation they had to face in Big Mom's territory, Nami and Robin made a space for themselves.
"So, his brother is the second in command of the Revolutionary Army?" The navigator whispered.
Robin nodded. She had kept that secret for two years.
"Sabo noticed something too."
"What?"
"I don't know what happened between the three of them, but when Luffy and Y/N were sleeping after the battle..."
"Separately?" Whispered Nami.
"Yes and no. Luffy was in bed and Y/N was holding his hand, sitting on the floor."
The navigator nodded thoughtfully, waiting for her to continue.
"Sabo said he liked his little brother's girlfriend."
Nami's eyes widened in surprise.
As if Zoro and Franky hadn't heard the revolutionary's conversation too. Now you had two more pairs of eyes watching you from afar.
As night fell, you yawned relaxed in bed. You couldn't be at peace for long. Your stomach churned at the thought of Luffy going to the territory of a yonko without you. It calmed you to think that the friends he was going with were good and trustworthy. Bringing Sanji back was essential.
You couldn't imagine your days without him in the kitchen, occupying every corner and filling the room with his twists and compliments.
The blanket was lifted carefully and arms wrapped around your waist.
"Luffy?" You whispered.
"Mhm."
Your heart skipped a beat. Should you put one hand on his hair and the other on his back like you used to? Should you tell him to go back to his room? To his bed? And not feel his warmth. Not feel his heartbeat. Not comfort him in silence. Since you saw each other again, you hadn't slept together.
"Y/N?" He whispered, resting his chin on your chest. "You must stroke my hair."
His demanding tone, trapped in a pout, made you giggle. He relaxed under your touch. He hadn’t wanted to bother you when you saw each other again, but he had missed this. Your fingers in his hair, the gentle circles traced on his back, waking up without you leaving him.
You had stolen his heart in a month, and he wasn't doing anything about it.
"Sorry." He murmured, his cheek resting on your chest. His tone didn't seem to regret whatever he was regretting in the slightest.
"Why are you apologising?"
"I gave Sabo your gift. The seashell." He whispered without looking at you. "I thought he would need it more than I did."
You smiled, resisting the urge to kiss his forehead.
"It’s okay. I can make you another one if you want."
Luffy didn't say what he was thinking. He knew you would make those magical pools for him if he asked, without needing a seashell. Next time, he wanted to show you everything he had to show.
But that would have to wait.
Wano was unlike anything you had ever seen before.
The suffering of the people in this village made your blood boil. Poor people had nothing to eat, and their water was contaminated. Seeing them live dehydrated, with sick children and rumbling stomachs, pushed you to your limit.
Hiding your identity would be difficult in this country. They needed you, so you allowed yourself to do something in secret. The gentle touch of your hands began to purify the water of the river of Ebisu, the pollution seeping into your bones. You didn't mention it to anyone, it was an experiment. You wanted to know your limits.
The flowing water was clean, perfect for the children, elderly and adults in the area. It was the little you could do while enduring the pollution. You had to find a way to expel it from within you without causing havoc. Throwing it away and contaminating plants, the land for future crops or the sea itself disgusted you.
But maybe, enduring it was your mistake.
Perhaps if you had gone against your principles and stopped trusting Luffy's words, those that promised to save this country, you would not be suffering now. But it was impossible for you not to do so. It was impossible for you not to trust him. You knew he would succeed, because he never lied. He worked hard for what he set out to do.
He was like sunshine in the lives of those who knew him.
You tolerated the contamination in your bones during the battles in Onigashima, but weeks had passed since you received it and your body began to take its toll at the worst possible moment.
You could only hear Nami and Usopp's screams when you stood in front of them. The three of you had a little girl with you. Otama was Luffy's adoration, and putting her in danger was something you would never forgive yourself for. The powers of your devil fruit did not respond in time to counter the threatening attack of the yonko Big Mom, an attack that was aimed at your friends.
The "heavenly fire" struck your body, its impact propelling it and slamming it against the walls. That homie, Prometheus, pushed your body wall to wall, breaking them one by one as if he were on a mission. As if he wanted to kill someone from the straw hat crew.
You spat out a little blood when the fire became more intense. It was burning your torso and arms. If you moved your fingers slightly, you didn't have the strength to call on the sea water, nor to send Prometheus backwards.
A song reached your ears. You opened your eyes slightly, meeting the gaze of the homie, so threatening and sinister. You smiled slightly, knowing you would be safe.
That soft intonation, almost as if a mother were tucking her beloved child into bed, could not be heard by anyone else present on Onigashima. Naia's song was exclusively for you, only heard on special occasions. The first time you heard it, you consumed her fruit. And this time, everything was a mystery.
"Y/N!"
Was that cry from Usopp or Nami? You couldn't see them. You could only watch Prometheus rage at your smile.
A gasp escaped from within you as the force of his attack tripled. The other homies joined him, Hera and Napoleon, carrying you through the hard rock wall.
A beep stunned your ears.
Your body fell from a height impossible to calculate. The abyss drew you into its darkness, and you could do nothing but embrace it.
The severity of your injuries left you with no strength to scream. To call for help. To call out to anyone.
Luffy, your friends, the people of Wano who trusted you. Was this your end? Was this Naia's will, for which you had been expelled from your native island? Did you really have to die like this?
The water engulfed you as you hit hard, sinking you to the depths.
"Announcement to all of Onigashima!"
Bao Huang's shout echoed in every corner. The fighting didn't stop, but everyone was paying attention. Something had changed.
"A member of the straw hat crew has been defeated!"
Usopp growled, wiping away his tears in despair. He felt useless. He should have taken the attack, not let you cover him. He couldn't do anything because of the fear. He couldn't do anything to stop you from falling. Nami hugged Otama, sobbing hard, apologising to Luffy over and over again even though her captain wasn't in front of them. How could she explain to him that she let the woman he loved be killed right in front of his eyes? Everyone's friend? Another straw hat.
"Y/N has been killed by Big Mom-sama!"
At different points on Onigashima, the crew was moved. Different reactions crossed their faces. Anger, sadness, regret. Some, like Chopper and Brook, shouted through their tears that you couldn't have died. That Bao Huang was lying. Others, like Zoro and Sanji, silently continued to fight. You were just as stubborn as Luffy, whatever had happened to you, you wouldn't stop there. Jinbe stopped dead in his tracks as Robin hugged Chopper, looking for something to hold on to before her thoughts consumed her mind.
Luffy's heart scratched at his chest as he was forced to hold back.
He wanted to run to the edge of the terrace. He wanted to look down. He felt the need for his longing to become one with the sea despite his inability to swim. And he felt you. The soft beating of your heart, how weak your pulse was, and how calm the waves were. Could you drown if you were the sea itself? Could your wounds condemn your soul to an irreversible fate?
He clenched his fists, unflinching. One mistake, one moment of weakness, would end everyone's life.
For some strange reason, the news from Bao Huang did not affect him like it did the others, who were crying incessantly.
Luffy trusted you, even when his observation haki could no longer sense your heartbeat.
You had spent a month together. You had slept together. You had shared and fought over food. You had cared for his mind and his nightmares without him asking. You had listened to his whole story and his dreams, while opening up about yours only to him. You had been one of the reasons he was standing there today, fighting.
He trusted you. He trusted that you would be okay.
If your origin was the sea, then you would return to it. And the sea would do its thing to bring you back.
Because you belonged by his side, in a silent agreement that neither of you would break.
In the depths, hundreds of fish and sea creatures surrounded your lifeless body, giving you space, shy to be near their goddess. Your outstretched arms allowed them to see you. The burns on your torso and neck continued to bleed, despite the water's attempts to soothe them. The pollution tolerated for weeks drained away little by little, oozing from your body until it gathered into a sphere.
"Nika, you've got yours!"
"Oi, Luffy! That's my food!"
The voices, clearly reproachful, echoed among those present under the sea.
"Naia! Come jump!"
"Y/N, let's play something!"
A heartbeat.
"Nika, stop moving, you're annoying."
"Luffy, I can't sleep if you move around so much. Go to your bed."
Another heartbeat.
"Naia is mean."
"Y/N is mean, she wouldn't let me eat her food."
Fire ravaged Onigashima. Everyone began to gather in one place, desperately searching for a solution. The captain of the straw hat pirates continued to fight Kaido, filling the atmosphere with anxiety. No member of the alliance wanted to hear any more bad news.
"Even if Straw Hat-ya wins, we'll all die in the fire." Said the captain of the heart pirates. "We have to find a way to put it out."
Nami took a few steps towards the centre, standing next to Marco as some surfaces began to give way.
The sudden tremor in the floor frightened everyone. Several fell to the floor, breathing heavily amid the flames and two powerful presences fighting on the terrace. The navigator held Otama tightly in front of her.
"An earthquake? How is that possible up here?" She said, confused.
"This isn't normal. Something's happening." Robin drew some minks towards the centre with her powers.
"Is Straw Hat provoking it?" Kid growled.
"No..." Law said. "He's still fighting Kaido."
"I sense another presence-yoi."
"It’s not Luffy or Kaido? What’s going on? Robin!" Chopper hugged the archaeologist, crying.
"There’s something in the sea!"
The scream of one of the beast pirates alarmed their opponents, with Law being the first to look into the hole you had made in the wall before dying. His crew had been on the Polar Tang at the moment you fell, but according to their reports, it was impossible to reach your body. A blue sphere surrounded you and the sea beasts threatened to attack them. They could have killed his friends, but something was holding them back. The waves battered his submarine, sending it away every time it approached where you were supposed to be.
One by one, they took clumsy steps to look through the hole, at a considerable distance, afraid of falling. Most of the straw hats did not want to see what was left after your death. The pain in their hearts could not be revealed, and their tears could not be shed. Not until it was all over.
The waves crashed into each other with fury, their directions unnatural. Not even the weather in the New World could explain something like that. Nami left Otama next to a sleeping Zoro, holding onto the wall to get a closer look.
"The water is receding." She whispered. "Everyone, stay in the centre!"
"Oi, oi, Nami, the waves can't reach up here, why are you worried?" Asked Usopp.
"Because of that thing that's taking shape."
The metres receded by the sea rose up in a wave. A wave almost two thousand metres high, immovable. And in its centre, there was a figure. A woman created from water, rivalling a giant in size.
"We won't get out of here alive." Cried Usopp.
"Robin-chan, Nami-swan, I'll protect you."
"Sanji! Me too!" Chopper whimpered.
"She looks like..." Law whispered.
"That's Y/N!" Jinbe shouted.
The entire crew's eyes widened before they began screaming and crying.
"Monster!" Usopp exclaimed upon seeing the figure.
"What is that thing, it's scary!" Nami cried.
"Y/N-chan had that kind of power all along?" Sanji shouted, leaning further out of the hole.
"I'm glad she's alive, yohoho!"
"It's a super miracle!" Franky sobbed.
"What a peculiar shape..." Robin murmured thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about it, Jinbe-san?"
The gyojin smiled broadly.
Naia had returned.
"I would recommend everyone stand in the centre and hold each other. Y/N is going to do something."
You cupped the water in your hands. Just as you had practised for two years, you had no reason to be nervous. Your body felt healthy and light as you became the sea itself. The burns would still be there once you broke this form, but now it was enough. Jinbe had trained you relentlessly so that you could achieve his hikishio ipponzeoi.
You prepared your attack and, without hesitation, half the sea was thrown towards Onigashima.
The flood was unprecedented.
The fire was completely extinguished. The devil fruit users weakened. The few gyojin who were there saved everyone from being swept away by the waves. Nami carried Otama, Usopp saved Robin, Sanji held Zoro, Franky grabbed Brook, and Jinbe put Chopper on his shoulder. Everyone in the crew smiled as they looked out to sea, where your figure stood in all its grandeur and splendour. To say they were surprised would be an understatement. They had so much to ask you. Two wanted to apologise for everything you had been through. A certain swordsman would seek you out to train when he woke up and heard the news. The archaeologist wanted to know everything about your devil fruit and its rarity.
You were something that transcended the unnatural.
"Shishishi!"
You looked up at the island's roof. Luffy, in a strange white form, floated in the air, reclining with his arms behind his head. His beautiful pink eyes looked at you fondly. And amid all that radiant happiness, you could see tears threatening to escape.
"Thank you for coming back, Y/N."
The land of Wano made headlines worldwide. The bounty posters were updated. The crew now belonged to a yonko, straw hat Luffy.
It made you happy to see how he was getting closer and closer to fulfilling his dream. And, in turn, how you were now one of the members with the highest bounty.
You held the poster in front of your face, grimacing from time to time as you felt Chopper's hooves on your burns, applying an ointment that he claimed was excellent. You would be left with scars on your neck and chest, but you couldn't dream of leaving that country without a scratch. You didn't regret defending your friends.
Although Nami and Usopp never left your side, the sniper crying and hugging you every time you passed by him, and the navigator offering you berries (something she wouldn't normally do with anyone) and multiple strokes on your hair.
You paid attention to your photo on the poster. It was you, from head to toe, every little detail, every tiny imperfection, but all loved by the sea. The sea goddess you had awakened had been captured and everyone admired her. For some she was terrifying, for others magical.
You smiled dumbly. You couldn't always use such a powerful attack, but being immortalised like this was nice. You traced the numbers with your index finger, curious about the insane sum.
Why was your head suddenly worth 1,000,000,000 berries? You had only died, come back to life, and extinguished the fire on Onigashima. Perhaps you had also purified all the water in Wano, and Trafalgar Law had used his devil fruit to remove the pollution from inside you. But that was not something others could know.
You never got a straight answer to that.
Egghead was about to be a disaster. CP0 was on the island with clear instructions. Your boots echoed on the floor as you stepped aside to wait for Luffy. You were supposed to take him back to Labophase, but he was more interested in facing an old enemy he had encountered again.
You looked up, entranced. His Gear 5 was mind-blowing. Everything he could do with his devil fruit, the ease with which his brain came up with new ideas, it all made you laugh. Not to mention the floor, which now made you bounce.
Vegapunk hurried over to the monitors.
"Have the white and blue warriors appeared yet?" He asked, his eyes shining as he caught sight of Luffy laughing. "Tell me about those transformations. The white one from Straw Hat and the young girl on her wanted poster."
"We don't know, to be honest." Said Nami. "Luffy's is the Gomu Gomu no Mi, but Y/N's is unknown to us."
The scientist pressed his lips together, holding back a smile.
"There is no fruit with that name in the devil fruit encyclopaedia!"
The crew gasped, unable to comprehend.
"What? That's impossible!" Exclaimed the navigator.
"Luffy always says gomu gomu when he attacks." Added Usopp.
"Look how beautiful he is! I'm sure she is too!" Rambled Vegapunk, raising his hands. "It's fate! I didn't expect to meet them like this."
"If you know anything, tell us. Y/N-chan doesn't talk much about herself." Sanji requested.
"What happened to those two?" Franky asked, approaching the screen to look at the two of you.
Luffy was still floating there laughing, and you looked at him with a sparkle in your eyes.
"They look like gods."
The cook choked on his own words, unable to believe it.
"Luffy a god? He's an idiot!" He shouted. "Y/N-chan is a goddess, that's true."
Robin looked at Vegapunk in surprise.
"Are you saying that those appearances we saw are those of gods?"
"Yes." Said the scientist, his expression turning serious. "The warrior of liberation. He who plays the fool and brings smiles to all. The sun god, Nika!"
The few crew members present were surprised. The answers that no one else could give them were in the brain of this man who stared at the screen excitedly. Eager to talk. Eager to educate the world.
"And the goddess he loves, the one capable of punishing everyone for him. The goddess of the sea, Naia."
Nami shook her head, approaching Vegapunk.
"Nika and Naia? I've never heard those names."
"Of course not. Their names were erased from history." The scientist said abruptly. "Nika and Naia were inseparable."
The revealed legend left them speechless. In the end, the archaeologist was right.
It was best not to interfere.
The sun god felt a deep longing for the sea. Seeing it every day made him feel free, and he wanted to reach it more than anything else. Then, one day, he met its goddess. He thought she would help him help. If he could make people laugh, then she could give them freedom.
Naia was closed off, only willing to care for those she loved: the gyojin, the mermaids, the mermen. Opening the doors of her heart to let Nika in went against her principles. He knew how to make her laugh effortlessly with a joke or a silly expression. He fought with her over food, hitting him every time he wanted to eat a fish. He invited her to have fun jumping with his friends. He asked her to do water tricks for him.
Falling in love with each other was natural. Nika always admired her foolishly, his gaze never leaving her. He loved her loudly with his actions. He loved her silently with his words.
Naia always looked up, because he loved to float. He shone in a way that only he could. Her love was protective, ensuring that he never lost his smile. That he never shed a single tear.
For him, she was freedom. And for her, he was.
Someone feared their powers together, the ease with which people became attached to and trusted them, asking them for things they could give them. So, under false pretences, he murdered the sun god.
The two lovers agreed to meet again when destiny required it. When the time came. First, Nika would return, accompanied by a man who shared his ideals of freedom. Then, Naia would notice him. Her living love.
That devil fruit that had eluded the world government for centuries, and that devil fruit that was believed to be non-existent, would wait to be reincarnated.
Nika would choose who would bring a new dawn to the world, and Naia would take into her sweet arms the one who would support him on his journey. A mystical love, a destined love. Unconsciously, their successors would love each other just as they had.
Because their souls resonated. Their souls yearned for each other. Their souls waited.
And that statue that had been looking —alone, hidden from everyone with its arms outstretched— at the sun for centuries, would finally be able to feel his skin under her fingers once again.
your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed.
or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.
wc. 18k+
tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)
— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^
Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close.
In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy.
It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison.
‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit.
He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day!
Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing.
It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air.
The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD.
Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’
Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’
And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is.
Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty.
Your heart flutters.
You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half.
Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like—
The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows.
Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand.
It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one.
You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other.
Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed.
He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life.
(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.)
Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead.
Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you.
The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail.
So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends.
It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl.
Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment.
It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline.
He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over.
You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously.
It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say.
You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you.
Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’
He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.
A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable.
You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis.
But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works.
He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs.
And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here.
When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen.
He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do.
That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does.
Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time.
You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response.
A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point.
Your phone buzzes, twice.
Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27
REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew
You grimace at the second pop-up banner.
You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates.
In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend.
Chores, laundry, dates.
You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars.
You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text.
Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited.
You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise.
You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business.
He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but...
That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it?
Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.
Maybe you should take a page out of his book.
TO: clark kent
u busy tonight?
we should bring back friday dinner for good lol
but at ur place, mines messy
Delivered with a whoosh.
You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face.
Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale.
Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button.
He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles.
All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city.
A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit.
You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again.
He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble.
You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now.
TO: clark kent
my boyfriend said so btw
Nice to let him know, right?
(You hope he remembers the joke.)
Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling.
Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order.
Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms.
FROM: clark kent
Haha, ok.
I’m not flying tho
and I don't have melon pops.
A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face.
He remembers.
Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis.
Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood.
And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already.
…Oh. You freeze.
It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face.
Oh, no.
—
Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville.
Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment.
Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside.
Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to.
The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr.
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad.
He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?”
Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?”
“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings.
Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back.
No sign of that asshole Nate.
No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave.
“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.”
Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Your Ma would disagree.”
“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.
“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.”
You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways?
Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does.
But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and—
Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say:
“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—”
You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!”
“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?”
You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.”
He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?”
You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.”
The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter.
Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son.
You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh.
“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?”
“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.”
“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward.
“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.”
You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone.
Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark.
Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel. Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day.
Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head.
And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving.
You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek.
The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass.
(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.)
Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.
He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window.
And then he taps the glass.
Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection.
Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force.
“What—Clark!”
You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter.
“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?”
You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck.
“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand.
The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.”
Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.”
A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.”
He urges you to a nearby alley—strange.
You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier.
You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides.
“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?”
Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
“Dude—”
“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—”
“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.”
He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams.
Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home.
Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass.
Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.”
You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day.
So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention.
You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics).
Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back.
He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk.
Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom.
It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew.
You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to.
You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners.
The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing.
“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.”
“Helped me, you mean.”
“Yeah…”
You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off.
“You’re mean.”
“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently.
Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back.
That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else.
“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring.
You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes.
It’s okay like this.
Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot.
“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.”
“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.”
He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?”
“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.”
The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you.
You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking.
Automatic, the most natural thing in the world.
“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead.
He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned.
“That’s barely the introduction.”
—
By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment.
It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner.
And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO.
(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side.
This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet.
Wait...)
The temperature doesn’t work, either.
Well, it does. Kind of.
But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away.
His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t.
Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all.
You think back to how you got here.
Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand.
What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville.
Ergo, you did what any best friend would do.
You chose Clark, because it has always been that way.
Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl.
He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative.
For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway.
“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding.
That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years.
You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short.
The ultimatum.
How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.
How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you.
The first one you had to call.
As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark).
As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’
And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up.
You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days.
Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here.
He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions.
Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry.
“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.”
“Thanks, Clark.”
And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented.
You remembered this one.
Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake.
You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall.
You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that.
Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line.
And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face.
You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body.
The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment.
Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw.
Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in.
Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine.
It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet.
(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.)
Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface.
Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window.
Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill.
The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves.
You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague.
You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark.
Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze.
But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear.
Small miracles.
You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home.
The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides.
You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working.
There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it.
You move on.
The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches.
Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves...
Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles!
And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape.
You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day?
A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist.
Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape.
You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled.
Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size.
(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.)
An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved.
Tom Sawyer. Of course.
An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time.
(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)
Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream.
"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light.
"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross."
"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.”
He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.
“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin.
Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge.
Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list.
“Heat breath.”
Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.”
You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind.
Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.
A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet.
The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears.
"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six."
"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings.
Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun.
He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils.
In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine.
You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?"
"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!"
You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two."
"Fine, Smallville Half and Half."
"But which Half comes first?"
"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate."
You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.
“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth.
He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups.
You want to hear it forever.
You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis.
“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.”
It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas.
You squint at the screen.
Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy?
You can’t tell them apart like Clark can.
There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf.
Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything.
The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing.
He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place.
Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.
“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.”
He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty.
You clench your jaw and duck your head.
“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.”
You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?”
He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking.
“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.”
“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks.
“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.”
Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.”
“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek.
You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.”
“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.”
You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win.
And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.
Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?”
“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.”
You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.”
“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.”
“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.”
He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—”
A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.”
“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name.
The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.
You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding.
Safe, in the way he’s always been.
And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H.
In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way.
It never made any sense.
Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters.
The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either.
…Would it?
Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.”
“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd.
Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of.
“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.”
Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.”
“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.”
“Ew.”
—
The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before.
Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks.
Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment.
Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force.
This is familiar.
Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood.
Familiar, but not the same.
For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue.
And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in.
Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on.
Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had.
Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them.
Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious.
“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.”
Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop.
Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs.
The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no.
You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head.
Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you?
Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did.
But that’s different.
That’s pining and idealistic stuff.
This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y.
It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend.
In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever.
(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…)
Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture.
Or—you dread to think—Smallville.
When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology.
Oh.
The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall.
You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent.
Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’
The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked.
Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in.
You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?”
“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.”
You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror.
He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting.
You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.”
“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.”
You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him.
Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things.
He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow.
“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?”
You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.”
Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now.
Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy.
His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off.
But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion.
And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal.
CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change.
You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark.
Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one.
Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady.
Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit.
It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth.
“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?”
It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love.
Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class.
But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest.
Or not. You could be delusional.
You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.”
“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.”
You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included.
Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?”
“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?”
You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in—
“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.”
“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.”
Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.”
He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?”
You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.”
A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.”
Oh.
You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine.
Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.”
Frowning, “What question?”
“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says.
Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?”
Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...”
He knows you too well.
Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve.
He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.”
Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable.
He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’
And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing.
Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him.
You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth.
And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour:
You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark.
Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way.
Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste.
But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is.
There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone.
(How long has he been listening in on you?)
You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice.
“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out.
“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.”
“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease.
But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.
Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.”
You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.”
His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?”
Oh, he’s jealous.
You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend.
“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?”
He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips.
He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you.
The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit.
But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips.
His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly.
Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.”
“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.”
Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?”
“Right.”
“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.”
You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh.
“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.”
You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?”
The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.”
Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.”
You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room.
He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger.
Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh.
But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too.
“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.”
Fuck. You can’t take it anymore.
“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek.
You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just—
I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—”
“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis.
He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth.
And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh.
Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss.
One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin.
You’re going to feel this for days, you think.
Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings.
Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift.
You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.
Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind.
He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push.
You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest.
He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up.
“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.”
“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.”
You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission.
His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit.
“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.”
“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.
Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity.
You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.”
Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs.
Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame.
“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air.
You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.”
“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird.
Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.
You want, want, want.
Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream.
It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline.
The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough.
Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.
He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands.
He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady.
Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.
“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?”
You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?”
“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.”
A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking.
“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.”
“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.”
“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.”
His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak.
He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you.
Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond.
Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up.
You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks.
He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit.
Your chest tightens for a breath.
Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction.
Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt.
You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out.
He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that.
“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest.
His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you.
And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips.
Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart.
His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity.
And his heartbeat jumps.
Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck.
He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home.
“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later.
Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim.
Your breath freezes in the same moment as his.
“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response.
His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it.
The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom.
Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties.
Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest.
You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation.
Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight.
And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you.
Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates.
Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots.
“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak.
“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.”
“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.”
Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease.
“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.”
Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head.
Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric.
A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be.
Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly.
He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach.
Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips.
“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks.
You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are.
He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it.
Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum.
“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.”
Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.”
You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...”
A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.”
Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal.
The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.
You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh.
“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?”
Curse your stupid, big mouth.
Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?”
Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.”
“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows.
“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...”
He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.”
A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you.
Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!”
“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.”
Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes.
Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down.
But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready.
He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.”
He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that.
“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?”
You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down.
“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.”
An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open.
“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two.
“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.”
“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.
You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end.
The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm.
He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach.
“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?”
Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist.
“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.”
It’s like a switch has flipped in you.
You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—”
He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you.
“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?”
You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up.
It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement.
Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too.
And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot.
It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you.
It’s just Clark.
He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair.
Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest.
Starbursts pop in your vision.
You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand.
Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.
You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth.
There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs.
But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place.
“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.”
His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest.
He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies.
"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some.
“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin.
Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin.
“Okay,” he says, quiet.
This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.
Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead.
You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it.
You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder.
Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and—
Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck—
Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple.
He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life.
He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs.
“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?”
He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra.
“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.”
You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth.
You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.”
He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum.
“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.”
“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him.
He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows.
“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.”
You guess he’s your best friend for a reason.
Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy.
You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.”
“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—”
“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.”
“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts.
Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper.
That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring.
He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes.
And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker:
“Will you let me have you?”
Not can I. Will you.
You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops.
“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.”
Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it.
He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is.
Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.
“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—”
“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—”
“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back.
Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville.
He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.
Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You don’t remember how you respond to that.
Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath.
He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.
Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.
(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit.
The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.)
And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin.
He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.”
He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh—
You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy.
Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand.
“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.”
“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.”
He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive.
“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—”
You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this.
The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries.
And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek.
A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice.
He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him.
Oh. This is proving to be too much for you.
And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding.
Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin.
Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment.
You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue.
He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm.
Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest.
It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along.
—
You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on.
Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand.
The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass.
And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed.
Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course.
The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor.
He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well.
His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light.
Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend.
“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.”
“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple.
“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks.
He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar.
You’ve already loved him for a lifetime.
You wouldn’t mind one more.
— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
Synopsis. Five times the elders of the Sukuna household are sure their fearsome clan leader is impotent, and the one times he makes them realize - Ryomen Sukuna is feraI. For you.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, clan leader!Sukuna, 5 + 1 things, arranged marriages, Itadori family shenanigans, wingmanning, the elders, helping Sukuna get laid, Sukuna is down BAD, true form, second mouth, oraI (fem rec.), fíngering, spítting, cervíx kíssing, pússydrúnk Sukuna, dp, DÚMBlFlCATION, tummy buIges, he’s big, rough s, riding, manhandIing, p talking, bréeding, creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 11.8k
A/N. Missed their chaos omg-
“Buckle up, boys. This might be the most important event of our lives.” Itadori Jin has never taken his role as older brother so seriously.
Locked in a team huddle with his father, the elders, and a very reluctant, recently-married Ryomen Sukuna. “Dad- you’re on the romantic music. Council- you’re on the rose petals. I’ll be outside on the phone with the fire department, the exorcist, the-”
“It’s my wedding night?”
“Exactly.”
With a final clap of determination, the group shoves their clan leader towards the bed chambers. Ignoring his grumbles of- “But the ladies love me.”
“Ryo, you’ve been single your entire life.”
“…” Okay, perhaps Jin was right. It’d been a traditional arranged wedding, yours being the only proposal that the infamously cold Sukuna had even looked at, let alone agreed to.
But he clasps the polished doorknob, “I’ll give ya an heir.” Opening. “Just you watch, I’ll give ya four heirs, maybe five, maybe six—oh.”
Until he saw his pretty wife.
Even more gorgeous than you’d been during those brief formal interviews, between clans and council members who nudged each other at the fact that he had finally chosen a bride.
You’d swapped out your wedding robes for an actual robe that was much…riskier. Stuck to your skin, glistening in the faint candlelight. You were semi-sprawled comfortably across the bed, having patiently waited for their ‘team meeting’ to have finished.
And Sukuna would’ve yelled at any of them for gaping stupidly from the doorway, he should have - if he wasn’t gaping stupidly himself, that is. Lips parted, crimson eyes bulging.
This was the clan leader rumored by some to be a monster, and rumored by others to fight like a monster: now fully frozen at the sight of you.
It takes about seven different council members and Itadori Wasuke poking Sukuna’s muscular back with his wooden cane to make him move. “Ryo-” Jin hisses in slight concern, fingers starting to itch towards his phone, namely in the sequence of the emergency number he’d memorized for tonight. “Ryo move- you- oaf-”
Respect for the head of the household be damned, they were deadset on bullying him inside the romantically-decorated room. Finally making him move one foot. Two.
As soon as he staggers through the entrance, the towering mahogany doors then slam shut behind him. Somewhat snapping Sukuna out of his little reverie - somewhat. He shakes his head free of that vision of you, gaze dropping to the floor- anywhere but where you were sitting, so beautiful and unbothered.
An heir.
Right, an heir. What was that nonsense about six heirs? Right now, he felt he’d be lucky to get to not faint.
“I uh-” You lean closer with a smile when he starts to sputter out, and the act itself nearly makes him take a step back. Heart rushing to the surface of his tattooed skin, “Ah, I mean-”
He gulps. And almost as if they were sensing the tension inside the bedroom, the group outside abruptly starts up the distant saxophone of a George Michael. It filters through the slight gaps of the doorway and into the thick silence inside.
You were looking at him with a raised brow, clearly waiting for him to speak first with his interesting reaction.
Which is exactly what Ryomen Sukuna does - exactly why he clears his throat gravely. All seven feet of his figure straightening, toned chest puffing out. Jin had told him to smile before he smoldered, and right now Sukuna does neither. Only asking in grim seriousness-
“So are you uh…open-minded?”
“What?”
“What?”
BANG!
He’d removed himself from the honeymoon suite before you could even blink.
And as you sat up on the bed in genuine confusion, the clan leader outside - your husband - was crouched against the now-closed bedroom doors. Knees to his pecs, all four palms coming up to cover his face- though, they do nothing to hide the scorching red flushed at the tips of his ears.
The elders can only gawk; they’d known Sukuna since birth, and never had he acted in this manner. Never had he been so flustered, blushed so bright that it looked like he was steaming from his very skin. Flinching at the touch of his brother, he groans once the older one starts punting him with questions.
Jin squawks, “Is your wife okay- are you okay?”
“Yes- no.”
“Do I need to call the fire department?”
“No.”
“The exorcist-”
“No no no- fuck! She was just so…” Sukuna finally manages to string together more than one coherent syllable, running his hefty fingers down his features, like he wanted to scrub the embarrassment off of him. And the tail end of his response rings out as nothing but a whisper. So small, so shy. “…beautiful.”
He looks up at the circle surrounding him like he was pleading, “So, so beautiful.” Baritone dropping into an even lower volume, he scratches the back of his head like a child recounting a crush. “And she- she smiled at me, heh. What’d I do to end up with a wife like her?”
The elders and family members look at each other.
Silence.
At least, as much silence as you could get in the Itadori Estate. Because, before long, Wasuke clutches his aged heart and gasps, “No!” Only once every pair of eyes has turned to look at him- “My son has no game.”
The emergency services were called that night.
Though, it’s more for a health check on his father’s heart than for anything gone wrong with your honeymoon. And Jin thinks that’s pointedly to do with the fact that you don’t have a wedding night - at least, not in the sense of the word.
After he’d offered Sukuna a general health check-up too (he’d vehemently denied) and a heart check-up in particular (he’d considered) you’d finally ended up walking out of the bedroom. Barely getting through one word of their overlapping explanations before you’d held up a hand.
“It…actually might be better if I don’t know.” You’d sagely remarked, and quite smartly. Before turning to your new husband, who’d all but cowered at your gaze, “But you need to get some sleep, mister. Don’t think I don’t know about how cranky you get otherwise.”
“Hell yeah, ma’am. So true, ma’am.”
And Sukuna had sauntered back into the marital suite of his own accord, for a night of sleep. Nothing but sleep - though, Jin thinks he caught Sukuna fist pumping in celebration when you insisted he didn’t have to sleep on the couch.
There seemed to be no hope for an heir that night. Or, ever, at this rate.
And the trusty council of elders that were present would later retell the story in the morning after, with varying degrees of humor - some cackling about the fearsome head’s one weakness, others grieving the lack of heirs that the Itadori clan shall now have.
But most had been left with quite a different impression. They eyed each other during breakfast, when you’d come down with no marks, no signs of lost sleep. Surely, there was no other explanation - Ryomen Sukuna was impotent.
He might not be the sweetest clan leader, or the most empathetic, or clearly the most savvy with the ladies, but he was their leader nonetheless.
And they had to do everything in their power to help.
.
.
.
“-and then the ol’ man starts playing fuckin- I mean, freaking ‘Careless Whisper’ and then I make a fool of myself-”
“Mhm.”
“-but she was oh-so-sweet about it. Which makes no sense, how can one be beautiful and sweet? I mean, look at me- I’m a right bastard-”
“Mhm.”
“-not that I’m complaining. And then when we shared the bed, heh, she told me ‘goodnight.’ Can you believe that? Goodnight? Obviously, she’s into me.”
“Mhm.” Five-year-old Itadori Yuji looks up from where he’d been playing with blocks on the archery dojo, “Uncle Kuna, can we go play hide-and-seek now?”
But the older man lets go the taut, tough string of his bow- hitting the bullseye of his target dead-on. “You’re right! She’s totally into me- heh, ten points for Sukuna.” It was already nearing sundown, and he’d been cooped up in the Estate’s dojo for hours after the fiasco that was his wedding night a few days ago.
Nothing else had occurred between the two of you since. For which he was equally as grateful as he was disappointed - obviously you didn’t want to spook him. And obviously he wanted you.
But it wasn’t his fault he’d been trained in the arts of commandeering rather than communication.
Which is how he found himself with that lil’ nephew of his as a therapist, shooting away arrows with the specialized bow designed for Sukuna’s four beefy arms, and fourfold strength. As if that would help ease the tension.
The clan leader opens his mouth again and it’s enough to make Itadori throw himself back onto the polished wooden floor. Starting off- “And did I tell you that when she told me ‘goodnight’ it was in a tone of like-”
“Ahem.”
If there was anything that could make big, bad Sukuna quieten down, then it certainly wasn’t his advisors, or his older brother, or anything else but you.
And all you had to do was clear your throat once to signal your intrusion, having wandered your way through the massively sprawling Estate. You’d somehow led yourself straight to him.
You bow politely, “I hope I’m not disrupting.”
“C-course not.” To your surprise, your husband speaks first. “We were just-”
“Talking about you-” You giggle as Itadori instantly runs to cling onto your arms. Excitedly squealing at a mile a minute, “Uncle Kuna says that- that he has a huuuuge crush on you and-”
“No!” Sukuna interjects in panic- that traitor.
“And- and he liked the way you say ‘goodnight’ and-”
“Itadori Yuji, I will pay you to stop talking.”
You’re watching the situation like a tennis match, and Yuji does stop - for about three seconds, that is. Until his voice drops into a conspiratorially low whisper, hands cupping his mouth- “Did you know he also called an exorcist-”
“What the f- I did not?” Husky bass damn near cracking, he rips the little boy away from you. “Scram, gremlin.”
Pushing at his back to make the toddler waddle away and give the two of you some space, Sukuna hastens to straighten up and puff his chest out. Making sure that the loose fabrics of his training yukata would slip aside to flash you with a sliver of his toned pecs, glistened with a thin layer of sweat.
And when - only when - he catches your eyes dipping downwards, he clears his throat—smooth, Ryomen Sukuna. You’ve made people disappear, you can do smooth- “H-hi.”
His vocals crack.
Nearly passing out from the shame - but you don’t seem to mind. “Hi to you, too. I see you’re working hard?”
“Yeah- I mean no.” As you raise a brow, “Who needs ta work hard when you’re just good?”
“Is that so?” It’s a blatant brag, but one that didn’t go unsubstantiated. Your eyes drift to the side to where targets had been lined along the distant wall, each of them punctured right through the middle with a sharp arrow. “Oh, that’s impressive. I don’t think I could ever-”
“Would ya like to try?”
You’re nearly as shocked as Sukuna at the words that escape his mouth, before he can mull and chew over them first. But that swiftly melts into a look of eagerness once you nod- being handed his hefty bow.
“It’s heavier than normal.” Before you know it, he’s sidled up behind you. Leaned down so close that his warm breath blankets your neck- pointed chin hitting somewhere by your temple, tense core pushed up against you.
So close. Easily, two of Sukuna’s hands help you hold the weight of his massive bow, and another two fall down to your waist to guide you. “Easy there, mama.”
“Th-thank you-” You’re find yourself stammering from the pure intimacy. And it was just so unfair how pliable he found you - heart racing, mind spinning at the thought - angling you bodily to face the targets. “So I just pull and release, then?”
“Mhm. You pull reeeal hard.” Deep, throaty. You’re noticing just how warm his hands were when they’re on yours, helping you pull, pull, pull back on the feathery edge. “Breathe in reeeeal slow.” You do, and you feel him match yours. “Position it.”
His honed strength helps you find the target, and his hands- oh, but his hands were nearly making you lose sight of the bullseye. “Aaand-” Two of his rough palms draaaagging down your sides for stability for him to tower over you, and then two more gently rubbing over your hands for reassurance as you- “-shoot.”
Schwing–!
It lands dead-center in the bullseye.
He grins, “Hell yeah.”
“Yes!” You’re hissing, bow still in your arms as you leap into Sukuna’s. It was a brief embrace, just the quickest few seconds - but your husband nearly melts.
With your face tucked into the crook of his neck- his eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets, four massive palms hovering in the air like he didn’t know what to do with himself. In a flash, you’re reaching ‘round your body to let him rest them on your back, and he gasps, “O-oh-”
“Oh?” With a slight chuckle, you pull back, and he nearly whines in agony. But this was the Ryomen Sukuna, of course he can hold it back…to merely a slight grunt of pain. “Thank you for teaching me.”
“Thank you for being my wife-”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind- I uh-” All four palms come up to cover his face in utter horror- it had been going so well if it wasn’t for the clan leader’s big mouth. Everyday was seemingly an unfortunate reminder that he was related to the blabbermouths that were Jin, Yuji, and…
Speaking of, where was Yuji?
Little did he know that a certain pink-haired toddler was holding a certain group of elders hostage behind the screens that led to the dojo’s entrance. Their bodies, formerly leaned over the doorway to spy on the couple, were now crouched on the floor.
Disappointed- how could their revered clan leader not take the bait? Impotency strikes again.
But, right now, the masterminds were slightly more occupied with something else. Fingers to mouths, voices in whispers- begging the little boy standing in front of them to remain quiet.
But Yuji only smiles, standing proudly in front of them. He whispers, “Do you wanna play hide and seek?”
The council of the greatest minds in the household look at each other, “Uh…no?” Unsure of what else to say to the boy.
Before their ears are pierced by the most noisy child-like shriek of Sukuna’s name—“Uncle Kunaaaaa—it’s the exorcists!”
An arrow shoots their way. And by the way it strikes precisely into the wooden panels between the elders’ heads, precisely where it didn’t harm anything but their motivations, their egos, and perhaps slightly their heart conditions - they’re guessing it was their loving clan leader that shot it.
.
.
.
Sukuna always did hate stuffy clan meetings.
The ones where documents were piled into columns taller than himself, council men and women spoke over each other to try and earn his attention, and he had to act for hours like he actually tolerated the guest invited that day. All in the name of ah- politics, or whatever.
And today was much the same - except for one shocking, sudden surprise. You.
You, seated directly opposite him on the large round table now that you were officially part of the clan. You, perfectly positioned for him to take in every pretty inch of you. You, who he’d give anything just to have beside him and chatting his ear off, or helping with his papers.
And, honestly, with a view like that he wouldn’t even complain about being forced to discuss- what was it again-
“The socioeconomic impacts of clan bonding activities and how they-” Choso - who’d recently started attending for education on the clan - drones in such tired monotone, shrugging at their two-toned guest, Zenin Naoya, without looking up from where he was doodling on some contract. “-could really benefit from those.”
“Tch- don’t talk like I didn’t know that, brat.” Sukuna narrows his eyes down at his eldest nephew.
Only to get a withering eyebrow raise in return, “Well, did you?”
“Yes…” No-
And almost as if he could read the pure lie on his uncle’s face, the middle-schooler has the audacity to put his pencil down and grin. More interested in the happenings of the meeting than he had been in four hours now. “Oh really? Well then, dear uncle of mine, would you care to explain to your nephew who comes up with these bonding activities?”
“The fuck do I look like? Stupid? It’s…Jin.” It was a guess, no one else would do something like that. He turns his face away from Choso and towards you. Politely laughing at something that the person next to you had said-
“And why is it important?”
He grumbles, this damn kid. Absent-mindedly- because oh, how was he expected to focus when your lips move to talk so prettily. As if in slow motion, like in those sappy movies Jin loved. “Uh, socio-something or the other-”
“And what do we hope to get out of today?”
“Erm-” Furrowing his brows, laser-focused on wracking his brain when- you turn his way. All you have to do is look at him for Sukuna to blurt- “Six kids, a summer house, and pets of her choice.”
In stunned silence, Choso only gravely draws a tally count.
You: 3
Sukuna: -478
“Oi- I’m at least in the double digits-”
“I think you have bigger things to worry about.” He muters, jabbing a pencil in your direction. “Your wife’s about to get stolen.”
And oh.
Ryomen Sukuna didn’t take kindly to snapping his head over and recognizing that slight glint in Naoya’s eyes; the way his mouth curled up meanly, body leaning just a tad closer to yours whenever you pulled back. Not kindly at all.
Worst of all, he’d just been hit with the realization that it was that rat bastard who’d been making you laugh while he’d been stuck with duties.
Simply on opposite ends of the room, and yet, it feels like an eternity until the hulking clan leader rises from his seat. Feet pounding their way over to where you were, your eyes raise instantly-
“Oh, there you are.” You start to smile - only for it to falter, coldly, at the shadowed expression on Sukuna’s face. He looked like he’d just seen a raging ghost, and his expression was downturned as such.
You couldn’t pinpoint whether it had been the stress or the fact that the future heir to the Zenin clan couldn’t take a hint. But you’re trying to soothe him, “You looked quite busy-”
“I was, ah-” He was always weak to anything you said, “-bonding…activities…socioeconomics.”
Sarcastically, “How riveting.”
“No need to worry, I kept her company, though.” An annoying, grating voice bursts through your bubble. And before you can do anything to stop him, Naoya has his arm thrown ‘round the back of your seat. Around the room, one by one, the elders were starting to turn in their own chairs. Discussions dropping to whisper- “And my father always does commend my networking skills, clan leader Sukuna.”
And you think Sukuna might burst. You think he might just rip into him-
But, no. Instead, he breaks out into a smile, “Ah, young master Zenin, huh? Didn’t notice ya there.” A smile that was just slightly jarring, slightly…dangerous. “I see you have met my wife. Quite charming, isn’t she?”
“Yes yes, quite beautiful.” Naoya waves off with a chuckle, elbowing the taller man where he could reach. Huffing, “Though, I must say, it’s quite smart to let the wife inside a clan meeting. Gives you something to look at, at least.”
You seethe, brows furrowing, “Pardon-” But your husband already has a hand signalling you to seat yourself back down comfortably. A commotion was starting to stir by now, and if anyone was going to make a mess of clan politics and reap the consequences, it would be him.
He could and would take the fall for you.
“Young master Naoya.” He declares in a booming voice, “The Itadori clan has decided that we would so ah- love to indulge you in a practical example of our very own bonding activities.”
As you tilt your head in slight confusion - this certainly wasn’t part of the meeting agenda, and the council seemed to notice it, too, Naoya hums. “Oh?”
“Right now. You’re welcome.”
“What? Now? But-”
As the lanky man scrambles in his seat, Sukuna grasps the very back and topples Naoya right out of it. “No no, let me.” And all it takes is one hand to lift their guest straight into midair and march him out of the room.
The door slams shut behind the duo.
And you didn’t need to hear the yelps, or the punches, or the begs for mercy to know exactly what your husband had in mind as a ‘bonding activity.’
It seemed the member of the Zenin clan would be leaving here bruised for his words, and it seemed that the elders were strangely…excited at the notion? Buzzing impatiently, tittering to each other.
It only increases twofold as Sukuna re-enters the meeting hall - knuckles suspiciously bruised, and notably without a pompous heir behind him - and you find yourself fighting back a smile. Muttering some half-hearted lecture about treating guests well, which he seems to lap every word of, you end it off by reaching upwards and kissing the side of Sukuna’s cheek.
Fleeting and innocent.
But the elders gasp-
“Oh my god- oh my god, it’s happening—”
“My money’s on a girl child being the firstborn-”
“-maybe he’s only half-impotent-”
Keen eardrums catching the whispers and congratulations, you only have the time to catch the tips of his cheekbones smearing bright red - before the clan leader stumbles back out of the meeting room.
“Oh, I think I jinxed it-”
Choso, meanwhile, crinkles his nose and reaches for his eraser and pencil once more.
Sukuna: -477
“Gnarly.”
.
.
.
“Uncle Kuna—-!” It was inevitable that every single person inside of Yuji’s cute lil’ kindergarten would end up knowing when his father wouldn’t be able to pick him up, and his uncle would arrive instead.
For one, it was all he would talk about the day beforehand. And two, they’d all hear his shrill squeal- except, most students and teachers used to this little ritual were probably shocked at the scream that followed after. “Mama—!”
And you were just as caught off-guard.
Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin fistbump one another. All those lessons, not gone to waste!
“Ah- Yuji?” You’re fighting the way your voice wobbles in surprise, and it felt like a tiny cannonball had been shot at you with the way he runs straight to you. “What did you say, baby?”
Somewhat confused, two large eyes peak up at you. And his voice is tiny, “Mama?”
Ruffling the curly pink locks of Yuji’s hair, you just-so-happen to glance at the boy’s uncle. Your husband. Who was currently steaming from his ears and flushed bright crimson, veins bulging at his forehead, mouth opening and closing stupidly. “I- you- who-”
He was speechless.
Barely even breathing- honestly, you’re hit with the slight urge to reach forwards and feel for Sukuna’s pulse before a calm voice breaks through. “Ah! I see Yuji’s favorite uncle is here today.” A soft, bowl-cut man claps his hands as he walks up. Your eyes drop down to his nametag and read ‘Haibara.’ “And you must be-”
“My wife-” Sukuna spits out, before another word can leave Haibara’s mouth. “My wife, Jin could never pull anyone like-”
“Excuse my husband.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
With yourself properly introduced - this time with names - you find yourself laughing along to one of Haibara’s anecdotes of Yuji, something to do with a dare and attempting to eat a terribly finger-shaped stick. He smiles breezily at you and hums, “He’s a good kid, and seems to be very fond of you. You should come visit more often.”
“Well, I hope to.” Grinning right back, you squeeze Yuji’s squirming body as Sukuna takes off his tiny back-pack. And you can’t help but think that it all felt so…domestic.
Evidently, the cozy atmosphere had been obvious. Haibara ponders out loud, “Forgive me for asking, but do the two of you plan on having children soon? You seem like you’d be wonderful parents.”
Oh, you look at Sukuna. And Sukuna doesn’t meet your eyes, though, with his face turned straight ahead- what you could see was the way the tips of his ears were slowly starting to redden.
It seems like ages, it seems like he was waiting for your answer just as Haibara innocently was. And your mouth opens-
“Mister Haibawa, Yuji’s uncle can’t be a parent, he’s already an exorcist.” What the f—the trio of adults snapped their heads down to see that a black-haired boy - another Zenin, confound it - had just tugged on his teacher’s sweater. Butting into the conversation- Sukuna thinks he could recall this boy’s name, something Gummy? Megumi?
“Oh?” Then it wasn’t an orange-haired girl on his other side, “My mommy says he’s unemployed.”
“That, too.”
Somewhere, in the distant bushes at the very end of the kindergarten playground, a few elders and Itadori Jin facepalm. All those lessons, gone to waste!
“Well I don’t think he can be a parent because he looks stupid.” This time, one burly boy with a buzzcut enters the scene. And he was sparing no punches, both metaphorically and literally - he knocks out a good few backhands against Sukuna’s core.
“That, too.”
“He doesn’t look stupid, Todo.” His nephew whines at him- that’s his boy!
Sukuna could almost shed a tear, oh, how proud he was. So proud, in fact, that he’s hoisting the babbling boy over his shoulders without a second thought.
Maybe Jin hadn’t completely failed as a father, after all. Maybe the boy wasn’t a hopeless case and had actually come to appreciate the strong, kind parental figure that was his uncle- “He just looks sorta stupid when he thinks he’ll embarrass himself in front of his wife. Because he does that a lot. That’s all.”
“Like the time with the exorcist.” Megumi nods, sagely.
“Like the time with the exorcist.” Yuji agrees, smacking the top of Sukuna’s head.
“There- there was no time with the exorcist.” The clan leader tries to clarify to an extremely confused Haibara.
And the girl - Nobara, according to the nametag on her glittery back-pack - points up at him, accusing. “I like his hair. He also can’t be a parent because he wears wigs.”
Sukuna growls, “You’re just jealous, bob-cut-”
You furrow your brows, “Do you wear wigs?”
“No.”
Yuji giggles, “Will you wear wigs?”
“No-”
“When will you wear wigs?”
“Never!” Honestly, children these days. He damn near pounces on Haibara, who’d asked that last question.
Megumi - honestly what was this kid’s problem - seems to pipe up for the sake of piping up, “And he steals candy from babies.”
“That was one time-”
“Hey hey-” Without warning, Todo was tugging on Sukuna’s trousers to gain his attention. Snickering as the older man looks down with the most weary face in existence, “You wanna learn how to actually impress fine shyt?”
“What is…fine sh-”
“That’s enough for today. I think.” Their teacher claps his hands, “And Todo Aoi what have I told you about using certain words? Don’t think I won’t have a talk with your guardian again, young man.” Flustered, he throws an apologetic look your way before corralling his tiny students inside. “Now- inside!”
You can finally breathe a sigh of relief - finally, finally.
Though, you don’t know what bewilders you more - the fact that they listen, or the fact that Todo was the only one that didn’t. And it was all because of the fact that he had Ryomen Sukuna kneeled down to match his height, mouth snarling, but head nodding intently to whatever Todo was whispering in his ear. You look at Haibara, and he shrugs just as helplessly.
“Umm…mister Haibara?” Another one. The pink-haired man’s soul damn near leaves his body as another teeny, toddling monster starts pulling on the teacher’s sweater.
Likely expecting an encore of the chaos just prior, his smile stretches thin. “Yes, Toge?” And you, too, start praying that it wasn’t any more love advice, or choice words about Sukuna’s character.
Pale hair cut into severe bangs, the boy mumbles in a small voice, “There’s some old men in the bushes.”
Ryomen Sukuna has never run up to a bush to kick it so fast.
And, later, with Jin left explaining to the teachers and the elders still walking off their bruises, he found himself walking down a softly sunlit road with you. Yuji now fast asleep on his shoulders, and you by his side.
It was a perfect day. Made only more perfect by the gentle tugging of your husband’s fingers towards yours, in midair. In all his years, it’s perhaps the scariest thing he’s done. They hesitate, and then they reach - the slow curves of his digits gliding down your wrist, before interlocking with yours. Warm. Firm. And yet, softer than his palms have ever felt.
He thinks he catches you smiling, and Sukuna thinks Todo’s advice might not have been so bad after all.
And from a nearby bush, Itadori Jin pumps his fist in success. Impotency or not, not a complete waste, then.
.
.
.
One night a week later, the elders decide, push should come to shove.
Literally; cold towels were thrust into your hands before you’d been shoved through the damp wooden gates of the Itadori household’s bathroom. It was the largest one, special in the way a large portion of the room was occupied by a steaming hot spring.
And from your position at the very edge of the humid chamber, you could see the toned shoulders of Ryomen Sukuna. Back turned to the door, just the upper half of his body was peaking out of the water. Glistened with dampness, deltoids flexed as he leans his elbows back against the floor.
You’re semi-glancing behind you at the members of the council that had all but thrown you inside- something about ‘marital bonding.’ Which was really just a way for them to take care of their head’s little ah…rumored problem.
To them, it was perfect - your gorgeous wife comes up to you in a hot spring and…helps. What more could he want? After all, there’s nothing wrong with impotency - there was just something wrong with their clan leader.
You’re game either way.
And you gently knock against the wall to denote your entrance, before walking up to where Sukuna was gawking from now. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Helping.” You reply simply, wringing the towels before folding them over his heated forehead. “Do you wish for me to leave-”
“N-no!”
It comes out faster than he’d have liked, more hitched than he would have liked. Honestly, the sentence barely even leaves your lips before Sukuna sits up straighter. Letting sploshes of scalding water drip down his abs, he leans further back against your touch. “I mean- stay.”
“Mhm, I heard you had a long day.”
“The worst, mama.” And part of his response is half-grunted with the way you’ve now situated yourself properly behind him. With your lap now a bed for his damp head, fingers weaving through those coral pink locks. “Had to refurbish the dojo, then take care of the problem with that damn Zenin brat…then donate to Yuji’s…kindergarten, then…promote a few elders… and one I had to…” Heavier and heavier, he was sinking into you with each nimble movement of your fingertips. “-fuck.”
“You fucked an elder before you fucked me?” You raise a brow in humor.
“Huh- no!” He’s growling, steam curling from the water. And as you’d briefly halted your ministrations to tease him, he guides your hands back to move. “I would never…eugh. Shit, can’t even imagine doing somethin’ like that with anyone but you.”
Suddenly, it’s silent. Except for the slow curdle of the water, and the soft grunts that Sukuna was oh-so-desperately trying to bite back.
Fuck, he was so handsome.
Such naturally chiselled muscles, and dark circular tattoos on just about every joint he had.
You massage his burning temples, slipping down into the longish length of his hair. “Oh, is that so? And do you imagine it often with me, clan leader Sukuna?”
“Stop being such a fuckin’ tease.” Hissing, Sukuna’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs as he practically begs. And he looked so pretty when he was begging; brows upturned, mouth unintentionally pouty. “How can I help myself?”
“And am I doing anything to stop that?”
“Yes-” Forgoing the massage, Sukuna now stops your right hand. Holding it tightly as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the tender inside of your wrist, hot with water and his blush. “Just existing is enough.”
“Sukuna…”
Your mouth parts, and it’s like a string being drawn- your lips are on his. It’s messy, with the way he’d angled himself from upside down, tilted up just to sliiide the plushness of his mouth across yours. It’s light, like he was holding himself back.
And you knew what he was capable of.
Which was likely what made you reach for the back of his head, pulling him in to deepen the kiss. Gasping, your mouth just barely parts for his hungry maw to clasp ‘round your sugary tongue. Sucking—before-
Before a button clicks, and suddenly the bathroom walls are trembling with lyrics singing ‘I just had sex—’
You could’ve caught whiplash with how fast you’re both staring at the entrance: meeting with the sight of the several elders, Wasuke, and a ridiculously large boombox. Piled onto an embarrassing heap on the floor, they’d seemingly fallen over- likely from their spying over one corner of the door.
‘And it felt so good—’
“Wrong one dammit- this is what Wasuke was on music.” You’re catching one of them murmur. Just about the only thing they have time for before scurrying away - leaving the boombox very, very behind. And you don’t have to look behind you to know that Ryomen Sukuna was likely seething enough to make the spring water itself bubble.
Sukuna growls, “Fucking George Michael.”
“Actually I think that’s Akon.”
Sukuna slams his open palm against the edge of the pool, and you have to open up your palms to stop yourself from being splashed. He murmurs, more to himself, “All because I didn’t wanna fuckin’ scare you- not that they’d-”
“Wait, why’d you think you’d scare me?” You ask in confusion.
To which he looks at you in genuine bewilderment, as if that wasn’t even worthy to be a question. “You’re beautiful.” He states, like there were no truer words.
Before gesturing at himself- those naturally rosy locks, the four arms, the faint slash across his abs where they said his second mouth was to be. Cursed with strength, cursed with power, cursed with looks that defined him as something more than human. “Look at me- just fuckin’ look at me. And that’s not all- how shall I be expected to live a normal marriage when I’ve been cursed from birth? I only ask for forgiveness that I’d been selfish with my choice of you, my wife-”
“Well, I don’t forgive you.”
It’s silence, and he looks torn between hanging his head in understanding, and taking your words head on.
“Because I think you’re beautiful, too.” You say it honestly. “My beautiful husband.”
And, for not the last time that night, the big, bad cursed Sukuna blushes.
‘Felt so good~’
.
.
.
“Sh-shit—” Your back arches lewdly, allll the way back until your naked, puffy core could reach as much of Sukuna’s mouth as possible. “Think I like it better when you’re like- ngh, this.”
Just a few minutes and one rapid trip to your bedroom later found you with your previous clothes in a heap across Sukuna’s bedroom floor. Your thighs shakin’, hips bucking wildly as you straddled his mouth—no, not his first.
You were riding his second mouth.
The wildly monstrous one slashed across the middle of his stomach, large and hungry. He’d gaped it open immediately once you’d clamored up his washboard abs, letting the curled tip of his second tongue slide deftly between your inner thighs.
Playfully flickering in patterns straight up to the target of your cunt-
“Haaah, so you’ve decided you like- mmm, this mouth more than me?” One of his four hands teasingly dips downwards to grace your pussy with a solid spank.
So loud, so wet that it makes his cursed mouth lick its lips in greed. “Really not gonna talk t’me now then? Not even through these lips?” Another one. And it’s letting off the rawest slurp that muffles your own squeal- “Though, I think she disagrees, huh, baby?”
Through gritted teeth, you somehow manage to force out, “Shut up-”
“Alright alriiiight.” Sukuna trails off, seemingly back to focusing on the ministrations of his tongue.
Your eyes are dangerously on the verge of criss-crossing as he glissades it up every bead of slick escaping you. Laid flat n’ draaaaagging across every inch of skin he could reach, the flexible tip of his tastebuds were just barely touching your treacly folds when-
Spank!
Even harder this time. And your mind whirls stupidly at the stinging sensation that just felt so good- “N-ngh, fuck–”
You were bending so cutely on top of him, and Sukuna can’t help but lean his hulking figure further down the king-sized mattress. “Atta girl.” Bucking up so that you’re fully seated on top of his second mouth now, slick dribbling all down his obliques, his cursed tongue glued to your clit.
Sticking between your folds, his pinkish tastebuds rover ‘round and ‘round that fat nub where you were most sensitive. Just barely gurgling out, “And here I th-thought you were shy-”
“And here I thought you were dumbified, hmpf.” With a roll of his eyes, your husband chuckles. “Guess not yet.”
It was as much a warning as he would give you - and it wasn’t a warning at all.
Before the fat girth of his finger is rudely pryin’ apart your pussylips and shoving the first few inches inside. Until you’re being spearheaded by him, he’s trying to scope every inch of you. He’s trying to snake his muscle in until he’s probed into every nook n’ cranny.
“F-fuuuuuck—” Sukuna groans out, watching through half-lidded peripherals at the way your tight hole was trying to suck him up. So thick, he can count every throb of your walls around him, one-two-three-four- “Are we sure yer not dumbified- hah, already? Look how fucking wet ya are, mama.”
“N-ngh, Kuna—”
Your whines are botched with pants, after each time his finger is swabbing its way inside. Fitting in two- moving in the slightest half-ruts just to fit inside- again. And again and again.
Each passing second had him probin’ into a new corner of your pussy - and yet, it still wasn’t enough for the clan leader. Which is why Sukuna finds his tongue slithering back and forth your folds, pushing them apart until he was given a front row seat to your depravity. “See? A damn- fuck- waterpark. Are ya always like this or m’I just special, huh?”
“You’re not gonna be special if you- mmpf, talk so- ngh, much-” The stretch is so incredible that you’re forced to bite down on the gummy insides of your cheek. A necessity if you didn’t want to wake the entire house up tonight.
But Sukuna had other plans.
Rose brows raising in slight surprise, “Ohhhh? That good, huh?” The edges of his sleazy grin twitch once he’s tuggin’ on your dripping wet entrance even further, pumping in the expanse of a third lengthy finger. “M’just gonna take that as a sign m’special~”
“Kuna-”
Oh, you were just so pretty huffin’ and puffin’ atop him like this. It’s enough to make his second mouth slobber with greed, edging dangerously towards the circle of your stuffed hole. “Alright alriiight. Brace yourself, baby.”
“Brace m- wha- oh.”
Before you know it, his fat fingerpads are pushed oh-so-deeply inside. So deep that you think he’s filling out every drivelling orifice, pumping furiously.
Sukuna fucks you with his fingers like he’s trying to make you remember. Like he’s trying to hook into all of your sweetest spots, the ridges of his joints brush up slightly against your g-spot. You mewl, “It’s so- oh, I’ve never felt so full-”
“Yeahhhh- those fingers of yours can’t do this, huh? Poor thing.” Fauxly cooing, he’s rovering you so open. Your husband’s fingers were so big that he didn’t even have to try to leave you trembling- to leave you whimpering as he pulls out in a quick split-second.
Wordlessly despite your disappointed cries, you crack your teary eyelids open to find that Sukuna was slipping off the silver metal wedding ring off of one of his left hands. And pushing it down onto his slick-glazed right hand- before thoroughly thrusting. “S’gonna be a stretch- gonna be a biiig stretch. You can take it, mama.”
“C-can I?” Your thighs twitch stupidly at the frigid feeling of his ring scraping your soft insides.
This way, you could pinpoint the exact way he was moving inside of you: in and out in and out, curling to hit your g-spot.
And Sukuna can tell the exact moment his stirrin’ fingers target your most sensitive spot- because you’re panting, you’re bucking. You’re throwing your head back once he plunges his slick-glazed fingers out to do it all over again and again, until his knuckles hit your pussylips raw. “Hell yeah, ya can. How’re you gonna, mmm, take all of me if you can’t even- oh, take these, hm?”
You’re pouting, “I-I can…”
“What’s that?”
In an effort to prove it to him, you bounce your hips right back into his sloppy cadence. “I can-” And it only makes your cunt squelch even louder the closer you are to his slippery tongue.
“You can?”
“Y-”
His hips jerk upwards roughly, grazing that ridged texture of his tastebuds from the very bottom of your pussy, up, up, up to the tip of your slope. And it’s loud. “You can?” Your heart races, it’s only then that you realize he wasn’t talking to you - he was talking to your other pair of lips. “Then take it- take- ngh.”
Harder and harder. His probin’ mess was reaching a fever point and you’re rubbing yourself pathetically on the prolonged muscle of his tongue.
And the more ravenous his cursed mouth became - edging his globular tip nearer n’ nearer to your stretched-out hole - the more ruined he was becoming. Bucking himself up animalistically, two hands of his control the grindin’ of your hips- manhandling you down just enough so that the wetness of your cunt just barely touches his rock-hard cocks.
“F-fuck!” You’re whining at the feeling of two thick mushroomy tips touching your skin.
And Sukuna doesn’t touch himself- no matter how many hands he has. Having you on top of him like this would be a sure-fire way to cream himself in his pants before he even started. His pretty lips wobbling, eyes scrunching closer the harder his aching erections throbbed.
He was so sexy. And you can’t stop yourself from staring- something he notices even when he’s in this state. “Wh-what?” Flinching at the sheer intensity, “The fuck are ya looking at, huh?”
“I’m just th-thinking…” And you have to stop yourself from moaning as he pulls out his plump fingers in punishment. They were glistening, dripping with so much of your juicy sap that Sukuna sucks clean in front of you.
Before slipping back in—“That I’d- oh- love to make you, mmm, shut up.”
Rolling his crimson eyes, “Oh, you’d love to make me shut up, huh?” And he was so smug. So sure of himself…until the leader catches onto the way you’d been rutting against his second mouth. Riding. And, slowly, those hazy peripherals of his widen- “Fuck…don’t tell me-”
You only nod.
“-you seriously wanna be fucked by my cursed mouth?”
Nodding drunkenly again-
“O-oh.” His head falls back into the satin pillows as you’re slipping it in, the slimy tendril of his tongue finally scouring into where he’d wanted to for so long now.
It feels incredible.
Finally hooking ‘round your tight entrance to push in, in, in—he’s just so big that once Sukuna’s unfurling his greedy tongue, it feels damn near never-ending. And you felt so tight pulsing around him, squeezing him inside once, twice, thrice. “Ya- ya really are gonna be the death of me- fuck!”
You start to ride him and it makes the big, bad Ryomen Sukuna mooooan, twitching his way inside of you. Since you were already softened up by his fingers, it was easy work for him to pull out and immediately replace himself with those rude tastebuds of his.
Straightened out so he can probe around your walls, the length of his cursed tongue was pumping n’ pumping.
You’d never felt anything like this before. And you swear you see the mouth on his belly chuckle darkly as he fucks you like he would with his cocks. Salivating. Sploshing your poor insides until you have him memorized.
Sukuna’s tongue swerves along your walls until he brushes the very back of your cervix, softly mushing it in. Again. And again. And again—“Fuh-fuuuuck—” You’re gurgling out, wet wads of saliva dribbling down each side of your lips. “Who’s the one dumbified now?”
“Wh-what- ngh-” His eardrums were popped from the pure pressure, barely able to make out your words.
And through the constant rams of his tongue, you manage to string together- “I-I said, who’s the- oh, dumbified one n- oh!”
“You.” In that very moment, he has his bumpy tastebuds glued to your g-spot, his hips arching right off the tense bedsprings, core tensed. Sukuna slashes his cursed mouth into your favorite area and grooooans, “Still you.”
He squeezes your perked clit with the tips of his rude fingers, still with the ring on one of them. And the backs of your eyes explode with white-hot pleasure at the dual pleasure - his tongue fucking you ferally, his digits teasing your clit. “Yes it is- hngh, because it’s gonna make me…”
Cum.
You were so close, you could feel it in each swab of his tongue. Gaped open even wider for the most maximum movements, each thrash is angled just right against your g-spot.
Just right to stretch out your glistening walls until they’re taking the shape of him. And he hums, “Yeahhhhh— all over.” Your clingy slick is drenching his abs by now, like a waterfall that he’s scooping up with a fourth hand.
One on your clit, two on your hips to move you pliably up n’ down his length, and his final one getting absolutely soaked. Sukuna brings them up to his primary mouth to suck off the layers of candied slick, smearing it all over his lips like some delicacy. “Yeah, allll over now, mama. Make a hah- mess of me.”
Your jaw unfastens as you watch him clean himself off, every single drop. “Oh my…hngh.”
“What? Mmm, jealous?” Ruder, harder. It was just so sloppy how his mouth rovered all over your cunt, slippin’ and slidin’ back and forth at a constant pace. “Maybe if you were, hah, patient, you could’ve gotten that.”
“As if I’d want that…” You’re huffing, stubborn.
“My wife, you’re just- about- to cum- on me.” The space between each word is slashed with a push of his rovering fat tip, and a thorough squeeze on your clit.
To which you’re shooting back- “And you were about to cum- ngh, untouched.”
And you think he’ll tease you back. You think he’ll bully you until you’re driven mad - but Ryomen Sukuna was moaning in agreement.
Speeding up the pace of his velvety tongue, he’s slithering it with a deep bash against your g-spot. Grunting, “Can you blame me?” Harder. Something at the back of his throat cracks. He begs, “Such a pretty, oh, fuckin’ wife like you and- and I’m expected to stay calm?”
Hiccuping, “I- I don’t- Kuna, I’m not gonna last-”
Faster. “M’expected not to get pussydrunk? Expected to not fucking- lose it. F-fuck-” Sloppier.
And you don’t get to hear what the tail end of his sentence might have been. Because with a few more vulgar strokes, you’re breaking apart—cumming.
Lids cracking with tears, lips wobbling out whines.
His name, over and over again. Your cute noises are so loud that he has half the mind to wonder whether those damn elders will hear, “Cum—ing-” You announce, belatedly. Body shaking with each peak of your high, “Feels so- so good, oh.”
“Does it, now?” He babbles away, drunk on your honeyed pussy. The sheer primal clench of your walls almost made it hard for him to fuck you through your wave of bliss. “Good- good, atta girl, cream all down my t-tongue now.”
The curvaceous tip of his tongue was constantly pricking your g-spot, and it only drags out your orgasm even further. Until you were nothing but a sobbing mess, “Am- oh, I am.”
“Mhmmm— go ahead.” Your thighs twitch, head dropping backwards as the last few dredges of your high are pounded away. “Go ahead- take it. Take it all out on me.” With a few twinges of electricity that zap down your spine, you can finally manage to crack open your eyes.
But you notice that just as you’ve reached your high, Sukuna did, too.
Or, at least, he was trying oh-so-desperately not to.
As your pace lazes, his two hands on your waist glide down to his plump, aching erections. Both sets of thumbs rover on top of his leaking orifices, squeezing just so he won’t leak out in cum. Stopping himself from cumming untouched.
And that makes you huff, “Kuna…” Your newfound nickname for him makes him flush, and you instantly swat away his hands. “Want it now.”
“Cheh-” Those hazy, blood-red eyes of his narrow, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the tight snap of his underwear being pulled. “What a spoiled lil’ wife…”
But that wouldn’t stop him from indulging you, of course.
Sukuna breathes in heavy puffs, and you barely even have the time to catch yours before he’s immediately clawing onto the right side of your ass cheek with one hand.
Usin’ that sinful leverage to manhandle you straight down onto one of his plush tips, the thick circumference of his shaft throbs against your hole and you moan. Head snapping down- “Fuck.”
Oh, fuck.
He was so…big.
And that was being humble- you’d come to learn that not only was Sukuna gifted with extra height and limbs, he was gifted with extra size too.
Two fat, veiny lengths laid between two meaty thighs, they were colored the prettiest tan flush on their tips. Dribbling down heaps of precum that puddled between the two of you. By now, the curly pink hairs at the bottom of his bases were already drenched, and his ballsack was so tight with need.
Sukuna was so hard that every throb was visible. So big that it made your thighs squeeze together.
Mentally, you’re calculating just how it might be possible for him to fit inside you. Before his rough tone cuts off your thoughts, “Ah ah- we can count together, mama. Say it w’me now-”
“Wha- one!” Almost laughable, he’s then bullying in just the thickened front of one cock. They were stacked vertically, and as you get pierced by the lower one, his upper one was rubbin’ primally on your front.
Sukuna’s mean fingers draw an invisible line from up your treacly slit, measuring. “Mmm- s’more like two inches.”
“Two-” You blabber, “Then how much more-”
“Guess we’ll just have to find out, heh~”
And he meant it.
Before long, Sukuna was fucking up into you furiously. Ferally. Thrust after half-thrusts just to fit his incredible size inside, “Tha’s about four…mmm, more three.” He’s drunk on your pussy, counting away how many solid, sopping inches managed to be squeezed in each time. In a split-second, your poor pussy’s being spanked. “You too, baby.”
“It’s just so- ngh—” Your head throws back for the nth time tonight, singing in synchronization with the creaks of the bed.
It’s like he was jackhammerin’ you, mazing your slick-filled insides with the globe of his cockhead. Sukuna was so long that it was easy to massage your every sweet spot- again and again. “Whaaaat? Can’t take it? Fuck, wee’re only about-” On your tummy, he measures out how far he’d slid inside by now. “S-six inches, still. About halfway?”
Your eyes bulge—halfway?
It’s a shock so large that the rest of your body loosens up, weakened. Just perfect for him to grab onto your hips, your thighs, one hand on your neck to jostle your cute body up n’ down his cock.
“S’it too much for my, mmm, good wife?” Mercilessly, he’s spitting between your ajar mouth. “Took my tongue but you can’t even take one of my cocks- aw, c’mon now, mama.”
“I-I-”
“I-I-I- whaaaat?” Octaves higher. Your husband leans in until his heated breath burns the shell of your ear, whispering, “Gonna hafta speak up, y’know? Unless ya want me to- fuck- it out- of you-”
And you always did surprise him. Because where the head of the Itadori clan expected to be met with a few sobs, a few pleas, you’re only straddling his toned hips tighter.
Swervin’ your hips down in a dizzying figure-eight to help him stuff your cunt full of him. And even though it still wasn’t enough to bottom out completely, you look up at him through teary lashes. “I want both, Kuna.”
Sukuna’s pink lashes flutter, his breath catches. “Wh-what?” And he stutters. Oh, you’d made him stutter - just as nervous and awestruck as he was on your wedding night.
“Both.” You can only repeat the word.
Because at that very second– before your response has even graced his very ears, he’s rutting up into you like an animal. Like a dog in heat, Sukuna’s crushing your front to his abs and his cocks to your cunt.
Pap!
“Fuck…” He hisses at the sting of flesh slamming on flesh, “Eleven. What was that?”
And you’re being dumbified by the sheer stretch, not only had he started kissin’ your puckered pussylips with his second cock - he was starting to press inside. No hesitation, no waiting around for you to get used to the stretch. Sukuna was hungry.
You somehow choke through wads of your own spit, “More- both- oh fuck!”
“What? S-say it again-” He’s like a broken record at this point, and so were his plunging cocks. Deeper n’ deeper. Your drivelling entrance was now stretched out so widely over the circumferences of his bases, sobbing just as much as you were.
“Bo-”
“Twelve- again.”
It was a damn wonder that he could still spit out coherent words. Stammering. Heaving.
The hand of Sukuna’s that’d been caressing your front was now slithering down to cup both his shafts. Guiding them upwards to press in—“Gonna have ya take it a-all until here-” You snap your head down to see what he was talking about - only to catch a lil’ you’d missed in your observations of his size before.
Those two ring tattoos at the base ends of his cocks.
The sight itself is so lecherous that it has you moaning- “Oh, yes- both.”
“Yeah? So sit pretty and take it, baby.” They were glistening with your sultry sap, nearly kissing your folds by now. “Allll the way until m’tattoos- got it, girl? Alllll the way until…” Stupidly, you’re nodding. And he can only breathe through clenched teeth, “Fuh-fuck! Thirteen.”
Thirteen.
Thirteen entire inches - each.
You’d finally reached the tattoos. And they were stuffed pretty n’ puffily inside you. Throb-throb-throbbing away against your every tiny orifice, Sukuna didn’t even have to try to mold your gooey cunt to him.
As you open your mouth to demand him to move, he plunges in two of his thick fingers. Messily dragging himself towards the back of your throat, “Tch- such a dangerous fuckin’ mouth. M’gonna hafta fuck that outta ya.”
You’re whimpering, your jaw dangling agape perfectly for him to spit inside. And then his second mouth—targetting your pussy with a thick glue of spittle.
At least he was nice enough to give you an actual semi-warning this time.
Because before long, two hands are clawing at your sides. Pinning you down so that his two shafts can prick your cervix neatly, bottomed out and yet still trying to go deeper.
When he finds that futile, Sukuna bodily bounces you up n’ down his upright erections. “Oh my god- o-oh my god.” One of his angular shafts was bashing in your sponged cervix, and the other was just below n’ cutely rubbing on your g-spot. “Fuck it just feels so- good!”
“Aaaaatta girl, enjoy it.” With a hand on your throat, he bends you back into an arch.
The pressure is almost too much - so much. You find your body naturally torn between running away and yearning for more, more, more. Though, luckily, the clan leader’s there to help you make that decision. “Nuh uh, no runnin’, baby. Put your back into it- taaaake it, you see how much she likes it?”
“Can- can hear-”
“Mhm—”
And truly, your overfilling pussy was so loud. Every splatter of precum inside you made the most primal squelches- and the volume?
The sheer sploshes of his gooey translucent sap was enough to bloat your pussy. But now with two plump, vein-covered cocks of his probin’ your innards, he was fucking a tummy bulge into you. You gasp at the feeling, “I d-didn’t even know that was- hck! possible-”
“Heh, course it is—And y’know how to make that cute lil’ tummy bulge of yours even bigger?” Sukuna beckons you closer, like he’s about to tell you a secret.
Even though, really, he’s manhandling you like a ragdoll. Reeling you in until his scorched hot lips were grazing your own, murmuring. “I just…hafta…fuck a baby into you, my wife.”
Almost on cue - like a little preparation - both of his strawberry-red divots stream out a few beads of precum. Splattered against your walls, they drip n’ cream down the sides of your pussy and make you see stars. “I would like that- oh, I would- I would like that.”
“Mmm— and what about you?”
Evidently, your needy cunt’s in agreement, too. Because the wettest noises suddenly let off from between your legs- and only later do you realize that it wasn’t just because of how damp your pussy was. No, it was because of his second mouth.
Tonguing down the shimmery sheen of slick upon each of your thighs, he licks up every drop of juice you were leaking. Flicking the curly end of his tongue at your clit-
“Ah ah- focus on me.” Sukuna snaps you out of your high with a light spank on your slope, and a literal click of his fingers.
“B-but how can I when it feels so goood—”
“So goooood, huh?” He drags it out purposefully, pressing his thumping veins against the roof of your channel.
Sukuna knew the effect he had on you. He knew how to target your favorite spot in strikes so precise that it left your toes curling, vision flashing with white. “Tell me-” Right now, he had one hand smearing apart your folds to better let his tongue slip between them. Another two hands clung onto your waist to help you move, and the fourth and final was grabbing your face. Pushing your cheeks together pathetically, “Can’t focus? Awww, my poor wife. Are that- oh, useless at focusing on anything that isn’t my two c-cocks right now?”
“N-ngh, Kuna—” Cute. How cute. Your dilated pupils were swirlin’ in circles inside the whites of your eyes, comically pounded stupid after each stroke upon stroke.
“S’that the case, huh? Is that why my mouthy girl is so- oh, fuck- quiet now?” He’s almost snickering- it’s so ruthless.
Heavy hips pressuring up into you. He was pounding you in rough thrusts, all the way from the mazing curve of his cockheads to those tickling tufts of pink at his very bottom. And Sukuna has the audacity to spit—“Fuck, mama. Do you even know your name right now?”
Your brain was too hazy, merely sparking with twitches of pleasure. You’re left blubbering nonsensically for a few seconds, until his tongue slaps your buttony clit. Startling you into answering, “I-I…”
“Heh, do you even know mine?”
“K-Kuna—” You might not remember your own name by now, but screaming Sukuna’s over n’ over had permanently branded his into your mind.
And so you look up at your husband’s handsome, leering features for any recognition. Only to find him tutting, “Now now, how disa- oh, disappointing. I thought you’d most importantly know who I am, at least.”
“Then…clan leader?”
“Nuh uh.”
Pouting, “B-but ”
“B-b-b-but-” He’s mocking, buttery tongue now rubbin’ your nub raw. You felt overstimulated enough to press your chin between his puffy pecs, like cushions. Sheening out drool all over his skin- “Say my title before you cum, baby.” You listen with bated breath, “M’your husband. And m’always gonna be your husband.”
“M-my husband?” Your mouth drops - and you’re unsure whether it’s because of his words, or the sudden increase of his tempo. Hot and hard.
His twin, rock-hard crowns plummet all the way until you swear you can feel him poke your lungs. Throbbing at a thunderous staccato, he breathes—“Gonna be your husband that fucks you like th-thiiiis—” Punctuated by a few sloppy drags of his vein-decorated lengths, “Gonna be your husband that eats you out like m’starved.” A few hearts that he’s drawin’ on your clit with his extra prolonged tongue.
“Fuck- fuck I’m gonna—”
As your sobs break off, his roughened hand dips from your throat to the slick n’ precum dripping down your thighs. And you faintly notice the way he’s using the moisture to write out his own name—
Ryomen Sukuna.
Signed off with a little heart on your skin, “And m’gonna be your husband that…” And a second heart right above where your womb was, where he was jackhammering into your womb like no other. Flooding it with copious knots of cum like he was practising for something else soon.
Sukuna leans down sweetly so that his lips trace your earlobe, whispering. “-breeds this pretty pussy alllll full.” Tapping the front of your pussy, like he was just imagining it.
And that does it for you. That does it.
Before long your head falls into the crook of his neck with a dull thud, so utterly dumbified on your sudden orgasm that you can only blabber. “Kuna- Kuna—!”
Your thighs were shaking, cunt fluttering with each spasm of pleasure.
And if Sukuna was going to fuck you through your high, he was going to fuck you through your high. Every probe of his rovering cocks increased your bliss tenfold, exact hits to your g-spot.
Sobbing, “Please-” You can only hold onto his flexed, tattooed deltoids for dear life. Clawing down his skin due to the constant stimulation, you bow your spine backwards and meet his ferocious thrusts. Riding out the euphoria- spark after spark that made your toes curl.
Grunting, he just felt so used right now. And he loved it. “Yes yes yes- let this entire house know. Let that whole council ngh- hear how good of a husband I am to you.”
It lasts until you’re gurgling on your own whines, zaps of electricity still shooting from your cunt. “Let them-” And Sukuna dares to smush your tear-wettened cheeks together to coo, “Fuck, what’s that–? What’s that pretty mouth hafta- hngh, say t’me?”
And you somehow manage out, “I-inside.” A shaky hand of yours snakes down to part your pussylips wider, helping his roverin’ tongue. “My husband…”
Ryomen Sukuna’s eyes widen, his kiss-bitten lips part.
You could almost hear the deep, trembling gasp that he’s inhaling. Letting out only five words—“I l-love you, my wife.”
You aren’t granted the time to formulate a response- before his thick, battered cockheads start spilling out. Flooding your cunt in mere seconds, you’re just dripping down your thighs in thick clumps of his seed.
And his cursed mouth is more than happy to indulge in all the miry ribbons of sap, lickin’ all upwards until a thin, ivory gloss coats its lips. Sukuna looks down and groans, “Oh fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck fuck-”
His flush was scorching, face scrunched in pleasure. You’re purring, “You’re so pretty, baby—”
“Ah, m’so glad I married ya.” He can’t stop the lil’ confession that leaves his mouth. Heart too full- your cunt too full. And if you saw one of the strongest, most vicious clan leaders in existence smile through a fiery blush n’ his pussydrunk tears, then you mercifully don’t comment.
“M’glad I married you too, Kuna—”
And you’d felt nothing like this before. Having his gluey cum splosh around inside of you, both of his lengths were shoved in so deeply that they were constantly coating your cervix in white. Your womb.
Your deepest orifices that leak out as Sukuna plants a hand on your tummy and presses, watching with bated breath as his seed gushes out of you like a waterfall. “Fuck- didn’t think it would be like th-this, ngh.” He was hypnotized, making an even bigger mess of you. “Didn’t think that it would be s-so…” Addictive.
He doesn’t finish his sentence. For now.
Red eyes teary, Adam’s apple gulping. You’d completely sucked him dry by the time that Sukuna was pulling out of you. The matching mushroom tips of his shafts twitching, reddened and sensitive.
He hisses as they bob in the air for a few seconds, before-
“Kuna- oh, fuck.”
Before you were flipped over and pressed deep into the mattress. Your legs on his shoulders, your knees near your tits—and his mouth over your overstimulated cunt.
Letting you cream all down his chin, Sukuna has to swat away his cursed mouth just to get a taste of you himself. And the moment his plush lips touch your glazed folds- you’re trying to run away. Failing.
“Now now, my wife.” Being draaaaagged back down by all four of his big, beefy arms. Sukuna pecks exactly six open-mouthed kisses on your sloppy hole, his lengthy pinkish tongue coming out to sluuurp—“I remember something about…six heirs?”
Oh.
.
.
.
“Y’know, there’s really nothing wrong with impotency.”
Wasuke grunts, a few elders nod. “Agreed.”
“But maybe he’s taken a vow of celibacy-”
“Maybe his dicks fell off.”
“Choso Kamo!” It was never too early in the morning for Itadori Jin to squawk at his sons, especially when they were in the middle of what was undoubtedly an exceptionally important subject of conversation - the two of you.
He wags his butter knife like a weapon, “We do not say those words in front of Yuji, and especially not in front of our toast.” Before reality sets in and he drags a hand down his face, “But yes…that is possible…”
Wasuke deems it to be the perfect time to chime in, “Bah! I don’t care if they fell off or if they multiplied- I just want grandkids.”
“Father, might I remind you that it was you who decided to interrupt their little moment last night?” A vein pops out beside Jin’s temple, and in his periphery can see the other guilty elders shift in their seats.
The old man does, too, but still in denial. “Slander! That is propaganda that I will not be falling for-”
“Father, we have multiple eye witnesses. I am an eye witness.”
“And what were you doing spying with us?”
“…”
As Itadori Wasuke rests his case, the winding table falls into perhaps the first quiet of the morning. Somewhat tense. Somewhat anticipating. That is, until an oblivious Yuji nearly upturns his bowl of cereal to chime in—“Exorcist-”
“What? Choso, did you let him watch your-” Jin starts- and then stops. Because then he’s seeing exactly what his youngest son was looking at - you and Sukuna.
Well, more like you in Sukuna’s arms. It seemed that you were having some trouble waddling down the Estate’s multiple flights of stairs, painstakingly taking it one at a time to enter the dining room. And he has half the mind to nearly ask what’s wrong, perhaps even get up and help you himself- until he sees it.
Oh, it was hard to miss.
He sees it, and so does everyone else within a five mile radius: the bite marks, the bruises, the slight weariness in both your eyes from lack of sleep. It almost looked as if you two had been thrown to the wolves.
And his younger brother often did forgo a shirt for breakfast, but now he’d haphazardly thrown on a yukata. One that showed off such feral scratches disappearing down his back, his neck, fuck- maybe even his thighs?
Jin drops his butter knife, Choso exits the table, and Wasuke…was he even breathing? Hell, Jin was sure that a few of the surrounding elders had honest-to-heavens fainted right then and there.
Nearly everyone knew what happened.
Except for a beaming Itadori who was the first to gain your dual attentions, squealing out a “G’morning–!” that you both reciprocate in hushed, hoarse voices. Fuck, he even swears he heard Sukuna’s gruff baritone crack.
No one comments, of course, for the dark glint in their clan leader’s eyes promised sure death if they did. Though, Jin does roll his eyes at a few of the whispering council members—
“What a glorious, wonderful day it is. I truly do believe in miracles-”
“My bets are on a girl- but a boy would also be-”
“Akon worked?”
He doesn’t think he can judge, though. Not when he’s immediately pulling out his phone to text Yuji’s teacher, Haibara, about the salacious new updates. Ah, can you blame him? You two would make the prettiest lil’ babies.
Finally, you and Sukuna finally take your seats at the clan table. Grinning. And by the looks on your faces, Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t impotent. Not at all.
jealousy headcanons and scenarios r my kryptonite! especially for emotionally constipated characters lol. for shanks, mihawk, and crocodile seeing their crush interacting with someone that turns out to be said crush's ex? there's chemistry between the exes and are those lingering looks he's seeing?! 🫢
OOOOOOOO GOOD CHOICES GOOD CHOICES 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻 I must say I am weak for some jealousy too 💀 why does it have to be so hot in fiction huh??? Or make me feel wanted????? Rude 😤
Three jealous DILFs coming right up 🫡
Jealousy from Shanks, Mihawk, and Sir Crocodile
Your ex comes back into your life and stirs up some feelings - How are these men taking it?
Form this took: started as a bulleted headcanons but then became a scenario/ficlet for each ahsdjajskdajs
Word count: Shanks - 1.1 k, Mihawk - 1.2 k, Croc - 1.2 k
Shanks
The clinging and diverting type
This mf tries to be sneaky about it
Key word: tries
It’s no secret that Shanks is the jovial sort and that his welcome and cheer extend easily to newcomers. However, something curious happens when the next one joins your large table.
You always have at least a part of Shanks’ attention, so the way you shift uncomfortably and curl slightly in on yourself is not going to go unnoticed. You catch yourself and relax back into your usual posture, but Shanks knows you well enough to see there’s a posed touch to all your expressions. It tames them from the genuine displays of your thoughts and emotions that Shanks so loves into something more suited to a diplomat seeking favor. Now that had him wary.
It took no genius to notice that each time a great laugh broke out your eyes would sweep to that newcomer to take them in, or how your would flicker your gaze over to them every time you had the spotlight, as if seeking approval.
Gods Shanks hopes that isn’t the case
Driven to seek comfort in your presence, Shanks leans into his affectionate nature to keep close to you. You can’t think too long on someone else with him constantly leaning into your space to whisper dumb jokes and silly observations. He made those laughs and he gets to enjoy them up close and personal. You may look to others but you always look back to him when he ventures to lay his hand on your shoulder or hand or thigh and give a happy, hearty squeeze before retreating. He relishes in the fact that you had been uncertain of his touch when you first met yet now you trust and even welcome his hand on you.
Shanks is burst right out of his bubble of avoidance when you suddenly jolt and sit straight, separating yourself from his side.
The cause of his sudden and very dire lack of you is that very same newcomer. The newcomer, who is leaning in so close to you. The newcomer, who now has all of your attention. The newcomer, who is giving you a smile that Shanks very much does not like. It’s very charming and holds a twinge of remorse that Shanks knows from experience would strike straight and true right to your heart
“I’m glad to see you in happier times. You look good,” they have the audacity to say, the words even seeping with honesty. Shanks isn't sure he focused on anything in his life as hard as he does on your reaction in this moment.
Your smile is breathtaking, one he isn't sure he’s seen before, all affection and understanding and a dusting of yearning. It turns his heart to goo right before it clamps it tight and squeezes, because that smile isn't for him. He needs that smile to be for him. His mouth is moving before the thought even sinks in.
“We do like to keep things cheerful here!” Shanks chuckles to the newcomer. He turns to you, making sure to catch your eye. “Life’s too short to anchor yourself to your sorrows.” Now back to the newcomer. “And this one-” an arm slips around your shoulders, hugging you to his warm side, “-helps keep it that way.”
The smile you give him isn’t quite as overflowing with emotion as the one you gave the newcomer, but he loves it all the same.
Unfortunately, that’s not the end of it and the newcomer actually sits down on your other side and insists on catching up. Shanks is a damn charmer though, and he knows it, so he’s not one to give up on keeping your attention through the night.
He stays in the conversation easily, not deterred by the newcomer outsider bringing up shared memories with you, even though they squeeze at his heart and lungs tighter and tighter. He uses it to get to know more of you, a part of him truly enjoying the new insights. However, a much larger part is simply set on keeping the reminiscing light instead of romantically charged.
As the time and drinks flow, his and the outsider's tactics get more obvious yet you get more oblivious, simply cruising on the comfy fuzz everything had taken on and enjoying the company. Your unintentional refusal to pick a favorite has both of them getting desperate and daring.
Try as they might, the outsider is clearly outmatched
By the end of the night you’re wearing Shanks like a perfume, he’s stuck to your skin at the heart of your body, chest always tight to your back or side, chin often hooked over your shoulder or on top of your head. His slight scruff tickling at your ear when he moves and talks is exceedingly distracting. So is the softness of his hair on your neck when he turns his head to bed his cheek into your shoulder and pull you a little tighter to him, saying its just 'cause he's a little sleepy and trying to get comfy. He unearths himself from his resting place only to seek it again every few minutes.
His arm is always around you when he wasn’t using it to drink (of course) or toy with you - tugging at your clothes for attention, tickling your sides to interrupt you, sweetly scratching your scalp to derail your train of thought, teasingly rubbing a thumb into your hip or thigh to feel you squirm.
Shanks is a handsy motherfucker (ironic right-), so you don’t take any of this as a proclamation of his love. The most you think is that it has just hit that point in your journey together where his vast appetite for partners has finally swept its way to focus on you.
You end the night giggling the whole stumbling way back to the ship, tucked into Shanks’ side. You manage to stay there despite being at the mercy of both of your swaying, constantly blending who’s supporting and who’s slipping. Your ex is far from your mind when Shanks tucks you in sweetly (well… sweetly to a drunk; in all reality you kinda flopped in, but he did make sure you were shoeless and properly under the blankets, and he even shuffled back in to put water, crackers, and medicine where you could reach).
Shanks does however have a flash of your ex in his mind when he's happily gloating to himself that he had won.
His last blurry thoughts are of how to make sure you and everyone else unquestionably knows that you are off limits. The unspoken claim understood by the crew while he works at winning you over doesn't seem to be enough anymore. Especially if that pesky ex comes sniffing around again. Maybe they just need a lesson in what staring down Conqueror’s Haki truly feels like.
Mihawk
The intimidating and biting type
Mihawk would likely be the most covert of these three, at least as far as your notice goes
Your ex has no questions about Mihawk’s dislike for them. With his reputation as emotionless and solitary, it’s not guaranteed that your ex will put two and two together to realize that Mihawk's dislike stems from their previous relationship with you. Even if Mihawk hints at it, they'll tell themselves that they're imagining things. It’s much more likely that they’ll think it’s because Mihawk is that way with all but the Few Exceptions, and they have definitely not made the cut.
It definitely didn’t help that they were a marine
Mihawk is already unhappy to see a marine on his doorstep, no doubt sent to yip at him about some nonsense or other that the admirals were in a twist over. That unhappiness quadruples when he hears you tentatively call to this marine by name, and then it multiplies again when the marine responds by breathing out your own name with shock and hope
This pest needs to be out of his castle quickly
Yet he can't bring himself to simply throw them out when you come over so disgustingly happy to see them. There were a few times where he'd interrupted or snuffed out your joy while adjusting to you joining his home, and he found the feeling it gave him insufferable. That's what forces him to let the pest in and guide them with you to the smaller dining room.
He’d simply have to find what the pest needs fast and expedite whatever catching up you two apparently must do.
That's easier said than done; you and the pest are insistent on taking time between flustered pleasantries to share uncertain smiles and lingering looks of longing in charged silence.
It's giving him the worst mood he'd had in years.
At first he tries to discourage this lingering with his mere presence. He knows he's capable of pumping out enough sheer displeasure into the air to knock out a squadron, so he keeps it to his other tools: body language that makes him feel larger than the room and a glare sharp enough to split hair. Both make the pest cringe and shy away, but the chance to gain your favor makes them push through it. Even though he hates it, Mihawk can't blame them.
Mihawk can tell that his mood is setting you on edge too - almost anyone would with the perturbed looks you've been sending his way - but that isn't technically taking your joy, so he doesn't back off.
In fact, he decides it's time to push even more.
He begins interjecting in your conversation, mostly with little insults to take the wind out of the pest's sails.
You aren't yet tipped off that there's something hiding behind his mood; he was never fond of braggarts so it isn't so out of the ordinary for him to humble someone. Of course, you wouldn't exactly call what your ex is doing "bragging" so much as filling you in on their growing career. They are actually relatively humble about it, clearly just excited to fill you in and not phrasing things to seek your praise.
Then Mihawk starts complimenting you.
Mihawk is not one to dish out praise. You've had to fight tooth and nail to get the mere drops of it you'd tasted so far, so his sudden highlighting of your positive traits trips your sensors. It isn't exactly alarm bells ringing, more it makes you feel like there's something you're missing. You figure it's the sudden disruption and old instincts from his Marine Hunter days cropping up.
You would have never guessed that his aim with his nitpicking and praising is to make sure your ex knows for a fact that you are out of their league. They don't deserve you. But he could.
No matter the reason though, you certainly relish in Mihawk calling you things such as "necessary for [his] castle", "smarter than those inane marine trials", "finally proficient and needing no distractions to ruin that", and "better company than a bunch of sea monkeys". Sure, from most anyone else they'd feel slightly insulting, but from everything you've so far seen of Mihawk that's a glowing review.
The uncanny nature of this whole interaction, from Mihawk's tank in mood to the sudden praise, keeps your focus away from your ever shrinking ex.
Mihawk is simply delighted to see your attention going to its rightful place, on him. You should be looking at him with such interest and joy. You should be seeking his approval; not some simpering swine's.
He figures he's been patient enough (it's been almost a whole ten minutes after all) and it is time to end this farce.
Mihawk stands from his spot and goes to sift through the wine rack. He returns with an above average vintage (even by his tastes) and two glasses. He sets them at the corner of the table so he can deftly open the wine. The silence as you both watch him work elates him.
The first glass is placed in front of his seat and swiftly filled. You watch the action with admiration for his fluid and confident motions. The pest watches with growing envy.
The second glass is filled while still sat in the corner, keeping its owner ambiguous.
The bottle leaves one hand and that glass enters the other, coming with Mihawk as he moves to stand behind your chair.
His full height set strongly in sharp shoulders and straight spine cuts a devilish figure behind you. Your ex's first impression was that he is haunting you, but there's some little whisper in their mind that, no, Mihawk is protecting you.
That whisper gets stronger as Mihawk leans forward over you, getting much too close to be polite while he places the wine glass down directly in front of you. His eyes hold the pest's with an air of warning the whole time.
Mihawk settles back upright, placing a hand on both carved corners decorating the back of your chair. The act seems clearly possessive. But surely Mihawk couldn't have found some special fondness for you?
You are none the wiser to Mihawk's antics behind you, too enraptured by the closeness of his reaching arm then too distracted checking out the color and aroma of your gifted wine.
Having at least enough pieces of a functional brain to pick up on that cue, the pest begins rushing out some excuses and makes to leave.
Kind as you are, you tell them they don't have to rush off, but they're adamant. You're a bit sad to see this chance meeting end so quickly, but your mind quickly settles on thinking it's for the best. Your memories of them are distant enough to be cherry picked and seeing them scamper off so easily reminds you that there are reasons you parted.
Mihawk chases escorts them out and returns to you looking much less belligerent and much more at ease. You figure it best to not risk ruining the positive turn by questioning it, yet you can't help but ask one thing.
"I usually have to pour my own wine from the kitchen's rack. What's the occasion?"
Mihawk takes a sip and the comfort of one of his favored wines coming over his senses coerces him into loosening his tongue.
"You've been good." Another sip and he thoughtfully adds, "I could give you more rewards."
Sir Crocodile
The assertive and analytical type
Despite Croc being a plotter, I see him as being quite direct in this situation
Ok yeah maybe he insists it’s because you can do better and you’re definitely above crawling back to an ex (“you broke up for a reason didn’t you?”)
But maybe he also takes this as his opportune moment to get you into his clutches.
Who could blame him when he feels the threat of such an unworthy little nobody working so hard to catch your eye.
Croc always keeps an eye on you, no matter what else demands his attention. Sure, there's an obsessive edge to it, but he just needs to know what you're up to - has to know you're safe near for when he needs you. You are the best assistant he's ever seen after all, and he's been through an army's worth. He's sure his new organization would've crumbled if you weren't there to balance out the clown and his circus monkeys constantly shooting themselves in the foot (sometimes literally).
Many of those circus monkeys were even stupid enough to try and approach you themselves. Luckily for him, you seem about as enthused on the idea of you having a partner as he is.
Which brings us back to his irritation that you haven't swatted that bug away from you. No, instead you seem to be rather tolerant of their buzzing. Maybe even fond.
That just won't do.
The crowds at this schmooze-fest, thrown to entice more pirates and criminals alike, part easily for his beeline to you.
It only irritates him even more that you don't notice him until you're swallowed by his shadow. You even have the audacity to look surprised when you turn to him.
And you truly are surprised - as far as you know there's no reason for Croc's usual grimace to turn into something so stormy, especially directed at you. It quickly jumps to your ex however and focuses that torrent there.
"I don't know you," Croc states gruffly.
"I'm-"
"Your name doesn't matter," Croc interrupts. "What do you do? Why are you here?"
And thus begins the interrogation. You can only watch perplexed as Sir Croc tugs every bit of information he could want out of your ex, making sure to cut off anything he didn't care to hear. That frustrated look and tone become more bored by the second. Every tone tells your ex that they're barely worth the breath to speak, causing them to shrink even faster than Sir Croc's anger did.
You catch their eye and send them a sympathetic smile, and then Croc moves on to you.
"And you," he starts roughly. He lets you sit in suspense while he drags those hooded purple eyes from the crown of your head to the toes of your shoes and back. "Why are you here?"
You're taken absolutely aback by the question, mouth flapping from a mix of shock and offense. You have quite a list of things you keep your eye on at these parties; did he want you to go down the whole thing? After a deep breath, you try, "To gather informationof and from possible allies and help build relationships?"
"Wrong."
Well, at least he let you finish your sentence. Time to try again.
"To make sure the night runs smoothly," you say much more surely. It's an apt description of your overall job.
"Wrong again." Yep, that grimace is now definitely a smirk. One that only widens when you purse your lips and stare him down. You notice the genuine amusement shining in Croc's eyes and relax a touch, content to let him guide this to whatever destination he has planned.
"Then please, Sir, tell me," you relent. "Why am I here?"
He takes a deep puff of his cigar before pulling it from his lips and watching the smoke swirl out with his exhale. You watch it too - admire how handsome he looks reappearing through the haze. Enjoying how small you feel as he leans over you through its last remnants.
He rarely touches you with his golden hook, always using his hand (you've yet to realize it's because he prefers to feel you on his skin). Now, though, he raises it towards you. You're surprised yet again when the curve touches beneath your chin to tilt your face just a little higher; the metal isn't cold like you thought it would be. It must be warmed from resting on his thigh. You shake away the thought of warming it further.
He takes his time assessing you, giving you your own time to look over his breathtakingly chiseled face, admire his striking scar, forget everything else but his eyes on you.
Without intention, you gravitate towards him, leaning forward enough into him and that golden hook drawing you that you have to catch yourself with a stumbling step. The fond chuckle he gives in response resonates deep and rich and feels like a reward flowing over you.
"You, my dear," Sir Crocodile says with unfamiliar mirth, "are here to keep me happy."
"And how would you like me to do that, Sir?" you whisper back.
At first, that just earns you a smile. Then he's drawing his hook along your jaw, tickling the tip around your ear, drawing it gently across your cheek. It ends its journey on your lips, ever so gently pulling your bottom lip down before letting it flick back up when he draws his arm away. You watch the glimmering gold retreat. He's greedy for more of the longing he sees in your eyes. He leans slightly lower and gives you back that hook, this time in the form of an offered arm.
"With your company, of course," He finally answers. The warmth you hear in the drawl of his voice is beautiful.
You slip your hand into the crook of his arm, happy you can feel his body heat through the soft fabric of his shirt.
Halfway back to his previous spot, you realize that you'd become so distracted that you hadn't even said goodbye to your ex. You had wanted to exchange numbers, maybe truly get back in touch and feel out if things would be better this time. Noting how deep your draw to Croc is, you already feel that that would be a dead end. Well, maybe some time rekindling things would help your daydreaming and wishing for Sir Croc finally start ebbing away.
"Did you see where they went?"
Croc has to hold in his smile at your question. "They scurried off on you. It's for the best though; they were exceedingly unimpressive."
You couldn't help but snort at his assessment.
After guiding you to your chair and pushing it in, Croc settles down himself. When he reaches for his awaiting drink, he notices Daz Bonez come back into the room, wiping his hands off on his pants. Their eyes meet and Daz Bones gives a firm nod before heading back to his other duties for the night.
Sir Croc smirks and takes a heavy sip of scotch.
~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~
There you are sweet anon, I hope you enjoyed and that it properly scratched the itch❣️ Thank you for the ask 🤍 Sending much love!!!
snowghoul
turnnoffyourmind
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