mars

and as of right now, your relationship with higuruma has felt like the inception of expired milk. granted, when prompted by curious friends and family about your budding relationship with the man, you generally have nothing but good things to say about him. higuruma is a gentleman, and he’s kind, and remembers all the things you’ve told him in the short times you’ve been seeing each other, and altruistic to his very core. he’s also a very generous lover in the bedroom, so your sexual compatibility has never been considered as something to ring alarms about. everything should be great…

but it isn’t.

you see, while you’ve only been together for a few months, give or take, you feel as if many a milestone should have been crossed by now… the most important one (in your eyes, anyway) being that you stay the night at each other’s place.

and yet, it hasn’t happened. you think to all the times where you and higuruma have finished fooling around in the comfort of his bedroom, out of breath and very sated, and the dimming of the sky begins to brush over the horizon — and like clockwork, you sit up, scratching the soft skin of your belly awkwardly as you say, “gosh, it’s getting late.”

the response you’ve so desperately sought out for was a lidded eyed higuruma, who would be looking up at you with so much desire and yearning, his arms outstretched to wrap around your body to pull you in, with barely a word uttered between you two as he says, “i would really like if you could stay.”

unfortunately, that has never been the case during these few months, where he would sit up next to you, nodding owlishly as he helped you collect your clothes, calling a taxi while helping you to the door and kissing your forehead goodbye.

the disappointment in itself feels unfounded and unwarranted. he’s a nice man. he never leaves you high and dry, always pays for your ride home, ensures that you text him when you get there, and he’s sending you a good night text where he asks when you both may see each other again.

the guilt you feel for the rejection that climbs up your throat when he doesn’t offer you respite at his home is insurmountable, to say the least. it’s no different at your place either: by the time you’ve disjointed from his sweaty grasp, he’s already jingling his car keys while looking for his displaced socks.

it doesn’t make any sense to you. did he not see this going beyond a few dates and sex? he had already introduced you to his cat, shifu, and likewise had became acquainted with your own kitten, popo. it felt incredibly serious in your eyes. you had gushed about him to your friends, posted him online via fleeting 24hr story posts, but his existence in your life was there.

so what was going on?

it feels like your day has been dragging on after having spent the morning in your own bed yet again, your mind going back to a few nights ago where you had a nice home cooked dinner with higuruma, with the night — of course — ending in sexual intimacy (you think the few glasses of pinot noir and a seductive carbonara made you a deer in headlights to your boyfriend’s whims, despite all your warring feelings), and, like clockwork, with higuruma picking up your clothes as he dialled for the taxi to come pick you up, much too drunk to drive you home (and apparently too out of his wits to suggest that you stay the night).

your eyes stay glued to the text chain between the both of you, with the last two of your messages having been left on delivered since last night — albeit they’re nothing out of the ordinary, just you tell higuruma you made it home safely and that you couldn’t wait to see him again… and nonetheless, the texts stay unread, taunting you through the screen.

a deep sigh leaves your chest, and you close your phone to look off into the distance (the aforementioned being the sharply lit hallway of your workplace, with patients and nurses going in and out of their respective rooms). just then, one of your colleagues-turned-friends rounds the corner, and you look up to see shoko, hands on her hips when she sees you sulking on the waiting chair outside your office.

“you’re looking especially forlorn today,” she teases and you deadpan at her as she takes a seat next to you, nudging you gently. “what’s up with you, huh?”

you nibble on your bottom lip, shaking your head. “it’s… it’s nothing,” to which shoko scoffs at, this time poking you with her foot.

“are you seriously going to try and lie to me right now?” she says, unimpressed. you shake your head.

“exactly,” she responds, poking your arm. “so i’ll ask again: what’s up with you?”

you huff, looking down at your phone, edging down a fingertip to switch the screen on just to see a whole lot of nothing (save for a the same text messages staring up at you) on the OLED.

shoko snatches the phone from your hand before you can protest, and her eyes glance downwards and her shoulders sag in immediate knowing. “ohhhh… it’s him.”

you don’t even have to answer, nor do you really want to.

she nudges you again, this time with her elbow. “did something terrible happen with him? why is he not answering your texts?”

“it’s… stupid,” you sigh, shrugging to which shoko scoffs.

“it’s obviously not stupid if it has you moping around like a heartbroken, lovesick tween,” she snorts, to which you nudge her this time. “if he’s making you feel like this, then maybe you should talk to him about it.”

you huff, snatching your phone back. “it’s not that simple… we’ve only been dating three months… that’s nothing in the adult world.”

shoko rolls her eyes, unimpressed. “don’t give me that bullshit. you’re a grown ass woman, and i’ve never known you to not communicate your feelings like one either—”

she then pokes your foot with hers. “and who cares if it’s only been three months? it’s not like you’re asking him to get one knee and buy a ring, you’re asking for attention. that’s not exactly a big ask.”

you sigh resoundingly and defeatedly, shoko’s words reminiscent of what you should’ve been thinking if you were a mature, adjusted woman.

“i know, i know… it’s just… when we have sex—” (the word is uttered under your breath, your eyes darting around the near empty hospital hallway), “he knows just what to say and do and everything seems perfect.”

you swallow thickly. “the we finish and he acts like he doesn’t know how to speak to me… then in return, i don’t know how to speak to him.”

you then laugh bitterly. “god, how pathetic does that sound?”

shoko stares at you for five solid seconds before slapping a palm against her forehead, to which you sit up in alarm.

“sho—?!”

she just as quickly responds with an iteration of your name. “you’re not pathetic,” she says, voice firm. “you’re human, and you just happen to be caught up with an emotionally constipated man. it happens to the best of us. either way, none of this is your fault in particular.”

your eyes begin to water slightly, and you have to tuck your thumbs into the sleeves of your jumper to dab at the inner corners of your eyes. you lean your head on shoko’s shoulder, sniffling quietly.

“what do i do? do i break up with him—?”

shoko snorts again, shaking her head. “you don’t have to go to those extremes just yet, silly.”

she then throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug that has you leaning even further into her hold. “you should definitely talk to him, though. sit his ass down and look him in the eyes and say, “we need to talk,” and if he’s half the man you say he is, he’ll listen. it’s that simple.”

you nod against her. “you’re always right, shoko… that settles it. i’ll talk to him.”

“of course i am,” she teases with a grin, pressing her lips to the crown of your head gently.

just then, her pager goes off with a loud beep and she groans, giving your shoulder a warm squeeze before standing.

“i’m off to finish off my rounds. i’ll find you in your office later, yeah?”

you nod again, smiling up at her. “yeah, i’ll see you then, sho’.”

shoko disappears with a wave over her shoulder, her heels a familiar click clack against the tile as she slides around the corner, and you’re left with your phone and unanswered texts all over again.

your stomach churns, fluttering with anxiety at the idea of confronting him, or worse, upsetting him about something as menial as this (though, clearly not with the way it has consumed you to the point of fatalistic worry that your romance is already over before it could properly blossom into something more).

either way, shoko was right. you deserve to know your place with a man you actually see a future with, no matter how early or budding the prospect is.

you unlock your phone again, fingers padding until higuruma’s contact comes up on the screen: hiromi <3

you ring him without so much a second glance, paying no heed to what he could be doing right now as a man of such a busy and demanding career.

the cell rings once, twice, a third time— then it clicks, higuruma’s warm voice through the speaker.

“hello?”

you can hear the clicking of multiple keyboards in the background, and he’s obviously in the middle of working, that much you do know, so you can’t help but let out a puff of relief at the fact he’s picked up almost instantly.

“hey, hiromi. it’s me,” you breathe, a straying finger playing with a lock of your hair absentmindedly.

your name leaves his lips just as breathlessly, and you have to bite back at smile at the fact you can just hear the corners of his mouth lift up in his voice.

there’s a slight pause with some shuffling, and suddenly it’s a lot quieter. he’s giving you his full attention, which eases some of the pressure in your mind.

“is everything okay? I don’t usually expect to hear from you during a working day.”

you let out a little puff of air, as if to deflate yourself like a balloon and a dirty spoon. “no, no, everything’s fine, i just… wanted to ask if you were busy friday night, since you, uh… never responded to my text.”

his voice catches from beyond the speaker and he sighs, and you can hear him rake a hand through his hair.

“i’m sorry. i got caught up in work, and i meant to open your message but i got caught up in work and it slipped my mind—”

there’s a slight moment where higuruma exhales, mumbling quietly, before he clears his throat. “to answer your question, yes, i’m free on friday. did… you want to do something?”

you pretend to hum thoughtfully, as if you hadn’t been mulling over these date plans for the past few days since you’ve last seen him. “i was thinking dinner at my place? if that’s alright with you, of course.”

higuruma laughs softly, a slightly crackle to the sound. “i’d love that. what should i bring?”

“just yourself,” you say teasingly, a fond smile now lighting up your entire face. “maybe a bottle of wine but that’s not obligatory in the slightest.”

he laughs softly — low and warm, the sound washing over the phone line like liquid honey, so much so that you almost forget that the purpose of this impromptu date is to talk to him about the future of their relationship.

emphasis on almost.

“you sure? i have no trouble picking something up.”

you shake your head, nibbling at the skin of your bottom lip as his words drape over you. “really… i don’t mind.”

“if you insist, my love. i will be there around seven?”

you hum sweetly. “seven is perfect.”

“seven it is,” he responds, and you hear some movement from behind the screen and higuruma coughs. “i should get back to work now but… i will see you on friday?”

“o-oh yeah, of course,” you stammer, a little shy now for some reason. “don’t let me keep you. yes… i’ll see you then. bye hiromi.”

he murmurs your name with the same adieu, voice terribly soft, as it always is when he’s talking to you.

when the line clicks dead, all you’re left with is silence and the quiet ache in your chest that seems to ebb and flow but never truly go away when it comes to him.

you stare at your phone a moment longer, before stuffing it into your pocket and getting up from the chair.

friday suddenly can’t come quick enough.

ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ

the rest of the week comes and goes, and before you know it, friday evening is just mere minutes away.

you walk around your apartment doing some finishing touches while dinner cooks: fluffing up your couch pillows, making sure your little cat stays tucked in and asleep in the spare bedroom, fixing the angles of your framed photos, and of course, making sure your bedroom is presentable lest you partake in any after meal activities (which, of course, is purely contingent on how the conversation with higuruma goes, and that conversation will be had, you have made sure of it).

you then saunter to your bedroom mirror, hands smoothing over your dark evening dress as you take a mirror selfie, sending it to your friends who insist that you’re not too dressed up, as they respond with a flurry of heart eyes, compliments and gushing words.

with some newfound confidence, you throw your phone onto the bed, admiring yourself in the reflection for a moment, and the thought of higuruma’s reaction to how you look sends your knees into a slight buckle, to which you scold yourself over.

“composure, woman,” you grumble, storming back into the kitchen, your heels clacking alongside you in rhythmic fashion. “it’s not about that right now.”

unbeknownst to you, higuruma stands outside your apartment, glancing at himself through the metal of your numbered door, and he lifts a thumb to brush through his eyebrows and the front of his hair.

with one arm, he tightens his black tie against his crisp white shirt, balancing a bottle of pinot noir and a bouquet of dark orchids and lillies. he checks the time on his wristwatch once more, waiting for the clock to strike at exactly seven when he lifts a finger to press against the doorbell.

you’re back in the kitchen and checking on the starter when you hear it, gasping and muttering a few expletives under your breath as you click and clack to the front door, unlocking it and pulling it open, smiling up and expectantly at higuruma in all his glory.

“hey. right on time.”

a slow, steady curve of a smile spreads across his face as he takes you in — really looks at you — for the first time that week since your last rendezvous.

“you,” he says softly, voice already teetering on ragged, “are killing me.”

he steps forward, eyes scanning you up and down like he wants to permanently etch the image of you right now into his retinas and brain.

as bashful as ever, you bite back a smile, cheeks heating up at his very obvious appreciation. higuruma then gestures to the bottle of wine and bouquet of flowers in his hold. “these are for you. i know you said i didn’t need to bring anything but… it didn’t sit right with my conscience to show up empty handed while you dote on me.”

you awe at him, taking the the gifts into your arms, and stepping backwards into your apartment. “really, hiromi, you shouldn’t have… but please, come on. dinner will be ready in just a moment.”

hiromi steps in from behind you, and you don’t check to see that he’s already close to next to you as you get out a vase and fill it with water to accommodate for the lovely flowers.

he follows you inside, his gaze still roaming appreciatively over the way the smooth fabric of your dress curves over your hips as you walk. you can see his fingers twitch at his side from your periphery and you have to bite back a pleased smile at how well received your current get up is with the man lingering behind you.

“you look absolutely stunning, by the way,” he says, almost exasperated at the fact.

you look at him over your shoulder for a mere second, smiling as humbly as ever.

“thank you… you clean up well yourself,” you jest, with a teasing lilt to your voice.

you take out a vase, filling it up with water. “um, dinner won’t be ready for a little while so feel free to make yourself comfortable.”

all the while, hiromi just watches silently as you put the flowers he brought you into the vase. as if operating on pure instinct, he takes his blazer off, draping it over a dining room chair. his tie has already come a little loose.

he watches you bustle around the kitchen and youre yet to see that he just... stands there, watching you, so obviously taking in the way that you look.

you hum a little tune to yourself, getting out a couple plates as you finish up, eyes darting when it feels like you’re being watched from your peripheral vision.

you spin, wine glasses in your hand as you raise a brow at hiromi, walking over to where he leans by the dining room table.

“when i said make yourself comfortable, i meant make yourself at home. not watch me while i finish dinner.”

the corner of his lips twitches — like he knows he’s been caught.

he holds your gaze when you walk over, his eyes on you like an animal about to pounce on his prey, but when he catches you staring right at him, he has to look away for a moment and clear his throat, as if to signal that he was deep in thought and definitely not checking you out.

you huff, rolling your eyes as you place the glasses on the table. “the starter will be done soon… i just need to make sure that the wellington doesn’t burn and…”

you turn to him again as you trail off, hands moving from your hips to shoo him off. “now go away. snoop if you must. i’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

“snoop?” he echoes, feigning offense as he finally pushes off the table. "i’m just appreciating the view."

hiromi gives you a slow, crooked smile of appreciation coupled with defeat — rare and genuine from a man of his stoic disposition (has that been said before?) as he then turns to wander into your living room.

when you finish up like promised, placing two plates on the table: two identical dishes of shrimp risotto across the table, parallel, you wander off to the living room, and you find hiromi strewn across the couch like he owns the thing, and from where you stand, you see his fingers over the spine of one of your textbooks on the coffee table before pausing at a framed photo: you and your friends, arms all slung around each other, grinning like fools in front of cherry blossoms.

his thumb brushes over it gently, and you almost don’t want to call for him from where you’re greedily eating up the way he fits in your home.

instead, you compromise. you quietly walk back into the dining room, coughing loudly before shouting out.

“hiromi, your presence is wanted!”

“yes, ma'am.”

he’s already there before you know it, his long legs carry him the distance to the dining table in a few strides, pulling out the chair across from you and sitting.

“that smells good.”

“thank you,” you say, sitting down. “please, enjoy.”

he doesn't move right away.

instead, he just... watches you spoon up your food, and it’s only when you look up at him to wipe away some remnants from the corner of your mouth does he smile softly and pick up his spoon.

“then i’ll start before i embarrass myself by staring at you any longer.”

he takes a bite — and genuinely moans in appreciation.

“… this is incredible.”

you smile softly, a little flustered. “thank you… it’s just something i threw together. i’m glad you like it.”

he laughs a little to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.

“just something you threw together? bullshit. this is better than most restaurants here in tokyo.”

another bite: this time, a slightly bigger one. he savours it, closing his eyes as he tastes it on his tongue.

“where the hell did you learn to cook like this?”

you shrug, taking another spoonful into your mouth. “cooking’s fun. there’s actually not much to do as a working woman when you don’t have time for anything but work, eat and sleep… might as well make it more tolerable.”

hiromi pauses mid-bite, his eyes narrowing slightly. “are you saying you spend your spare time cooking?"

he stares at you, completely incredulous before a slow, crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“you’re unreal.”

you raise a brow while hiding back a humble smile over the curve of your spoon. “i mean, what else could possibly better suited for my time? plus, i like cooking for people… makes me feel good.”

hiromi can't help the way his eyes rove over you again, lingering on your mouth, your neck, the smooth expanse of skin he can see above the neckline of your dress.

“you enjoy doing it for others, huh?” he teases, though there's a hint of something else in his voice. “and if you're the only person there? who do you cook for then?”

you ponder at that, taken aback at his faithfulness. “hm. i guess i’ve never really thought of it that way.”

you think for a moment, then takes a sip from your wine glass, sweet and red yet bitter and light. “i guess it’s a little different when it’s for myself… but that could be applied to almost everything in my life. i think you have to be slightly masochistic to be a doctor.”

a soft huff of laughter escapes him at that, his eyes warm and bright on yours over the rim of his glass.

“slightly masochistic, huh? is that a requirement for you doctors?”

hiromi takes another sip in tandem, tongue in cheek before he huffs again. “i guess that's how you end up working yourself into the ground for ungrateful patients and shitty hours."

“hey — takes one to know one,” you retort, raising a brow. “swap patients for clients and defendants and that’s basically your life to a t.”

hiromi tilts his head backward as if in thought before nodding in agreement, his shoulders shifting beneath his shirt.

“fair enough,” he concedes, lips curved in a wry smile. “though i get to charge them a hell of a lot more.”

he takes another bite, then:

“that being said... my shitty hours do come with a good salary.”

“oh?” you says, spooning another bite into your mouth. “here i thought that public defenders were one of the more oppressed groups in our judicial system.”

“ah—” he smirks, leaning forward slightly. “careful, doctor. i’m not just a public defender anymore.”

hiromi’s voice drops a notch — smooth, confident and it almost has your spine sitting up straight from the buzz of conduction that tickles up the nerves.

“i’ve got my own practice now. we handle civil litigation and criminal defense — you know, pro bono for those who need it most."

he watches you over his glass as he takes another sip, smacking his lips quietly as if to make a point.

“please don’t let the modest suits fool you. i can afford to take you out for more than just dinner.”

you raise your hands in mock surrender. “forgive me for my preconceived notions… and that’s very good to know.”

he laughs, low and warm that it has you grinning from bask of it, and there's a flicker of something proud in his eyes.

“not going to lie, i like that you didn’t know,” he admits, swirling the wine in his glass. “means you weren't after me for my bank account.”

his gaze lifts to meet yours, suddenly serious.

“...you were after me for me.”

it’s your turn to laugh quietly this time, leaning back in your chair.

“well, while i am glad to have given you that impression, i grew up relatively well off… men with money are a dime a dozen. it means very little to me in the grand scheme of things.”

hiromi’s lips quirk in an amused smile, eyes narrowing slightly. “is that right? have you dated a lot of rich men, doctor?”

you snort, leaning forward onto the palm of your hands as the man in front of you sets his fork down, his wine glass joining it in a quiet, soft thump. his eyes never leave your face. “do i give you that impression?”

“no, not at all,” he jibes, cheeks dimpling ever so faintly, “but i am beginning to wonder if I'm at risk here," he teases, but there's a hint of sincerity in his voice. "you might take one look at my paycheck and dump me for someone richer."

you shake your head, smiling a little. “au contraire, mr lawyer… all i can do is assure you in that—” and you top off his glass of red, before pouring some in your own.

“money just doesn’t impress me quite as much as you may think it does.”

you polish off your plate, looking at him. “now, are you done? the main is almost ready.”

hiromi blinks at you.

right. dinner.

you don’t fail to notice that he’s been sitting, staring at you the entire time. nevertheless, he recovers quickly with a curt nod, flashing you a lazy smile as he finally sets his silverware down.

“yes, i’m done. that was delicious, by the way… not that i expect anything less from you, doctor.”

he grins wider, raising his empty wine glass in a mock toast.

you rolls your eyes at him fondly, playfully brushing past his shoulder with the sway of your hip as you take his plate and your own to the kitchen behind where you eat.

the moment you walk away, hiromi’s eyes follow, lingering like a dedicated flame. he lets out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair and he tries his hardest to stay seated — fingers drumming once against the table — before finally standing and walking into the kitchen behind you.

he leans against the arched doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“let me help.”

you look over at him, putting on your apron and taking out some folded oven gloves. “i would be a terrible hostess if i let my guest help me cook.”

he steps closer, too close; close enough to smell the vanilla in his hair that mingles with the faint citrus of your perfume.

“then consider it a rebellion," he teases, his voice low and gentle, "against good hosting."

his fingers graze yours as he takes the dish from your hands, the heat between them not just from the oven.

“let me do this… please?”

you raise a brow in contemplation before decidedly raising your hands in stark white defeat. “okay… fine. you’ve officially browbeaten me into submission,” and you rest your hands on your hips for a second, before lifting up a tray.

“here. you can take the pot of gravy to the table while i slice the wellington.”

he smiles triumphantly, taking the pot from you easily. he’s a little too smug, the look in those grey eyes justifiably victorious.

“i am good at that, you know," he says as he walks away. the words have a double meaning, and you can’t help think that the both of you know it.

he sets the dish down in the middle of the table, then returns to the kitchen again, finding his way behind you once again.

“i would hope so, mr lawyer,” you say, passing him a pot of potatoes. “now take this and sit down. i’ll be there with our second course of the evening.”

“yes, ma'am.”

the corners of his lips twitch, holding back a smile at the authoritative tone in your voice. you can tell he wants to tease you more, to say something cheeky and infuriating, but the side eye glance you give him makes him hold his tongue, bowing his head as he returns to the dining room.

he takes the potatoes like the committed one he is and sits, hands on his lap, a proper gentleman waiting for his meal.

but his eyes never leave you.

you return, with two plates of beef wellington and tenderstem broccoli (to which you’ve told hiromi that there is a difference and that it is superior to normal broccoli), sliding them onto the table.

you sit across from him once again. “well then… please enjoy.”

he looks down at the meal before him; and then, of course, there's you in front of him.

he has to swallow thickly so as to not give anything away in his voice, dark eyes lifting back to yours.

“thank you,” he says quietly. “this looks amazing.”

you beam at him, (and you subtly notice that you keep doing a lot of that tonight, but can it even be helped when in such gorgeous and suave company?), digging into your own portion.

hiromi chews and swallows, making little to no noise —but then says suddenly, "can i ask you something?"

you look up at him, mid bite, nodding. “of course.”

“why’d you go into neurosurgery?”

his voice is gentle yet serious, which is typical of hiromi’s nature. it’s one of things you like most about him.

he watches you closely as he waits for the answer, to which your lips curl a little at the corners as you think, your eyes flitting down to your plate. “it was the only specialty that didn’t make me want to off myself after every rotation.”

hiromi is surprised into a shocked, choking sort of laugh. his eyes roam over you, a slight smirk on his lips.

“that is... brutally honest.”

you laugh a little sheepishly, shaking your head.

“i’m sorry i don’t have a more politically correct answer… i’m sure if you asked me 4 years ago in the midst of med school, i would’ve said that i just want to help people…but it’s like you said: the people are ungrateful and the hours are long. and the pay always starts out to be downright abysmal.”

hiromi snorts, shaking his head almost ruefully.

“oh, believe me, i know how bad the hours are. and the pay is just a joke, so much so it feels like an insult. you can work yourself to the bone and there's no reward—just a slap on the back and a 'keep up the good work.'”

his fingers drum softly on the tabletop, like he can't stay still. he lets out a sigh, a tired sound, accompanied by the dark circles under his eyes, as if to serve as a physical reminder of their shared relatability.

“i get it. trust me… i get it.”

you nod, eyes softening. “yeah… it’s pretty much exactly that.” you then huffs, shaking your head. “but i don’t know… i like my job for the most part. i work with a lot of kids mostly, so that’s the silver lining. although, maybe not… while they’re a lot more pleasant than the adults i take care of… that makes the suffering oh, so much worse.”

“you..." he pauses, a look on his face you can’t quite name. "...you like kids?"

“mhmm,” you hum behind a sip of wine. “i love them… i especially adore the kids i work with…” and you say it all with a growing smile on your face, unknowing to you but ever so obvious to the man sat opposite you.

“i think someone who dislikes the world’s most innocent would be someone i wouldn’t particularly want to get to know in any capacity… how about you? do you like kids, hiromi?”

he doesn’t hesitate for even a second. “i do.”

the smile on his face is almost boyishly earnest when he says it— and he looks at you, with your soft, pretty features—and all he can picture is the way you'd look, a little swollen with a child in your belly.

he swallows, heat rising in his face. “... i like them a lot.”

this time, it’s your turn to be a little shocked, and you raise a brow. “really?” with blatant disbelief laden in your tone.

“huh. i never got that vibe from you.”

his lips twitch, caught somewhere between a smirk and an honest-to-god blush.

“you don't think i look the type?” he leans forward slightly, voice dropping. "just because i spend my days arguing with assholes in court doesn't mean i don't want to come home to tiny little people who call me daddy.”

he says it casually (too casually) but his eyes flicker to yours for just a second, testing the waters.

“...i have always wanted kids.”

you smile at that, chuckling at his choice of words.

“so, let me get this straight: you’re a 35 year old defence attorney who earns a decent living, loves kids and is dashingly handsome? what exactly were you doing before we met?”

his cheeks flush even warmer at your words, squirming a little in his seat. hiromi ends up just mirroring your own smile, dimple in his right cheek flashing as he does.

“not finding the right woman.” he lets out a mock sort of sigh. “i was starting to think I'd die alone, honestly.”

you let out a genuine laugh at the pure cynicism in his words. “oh? pray tell. what was the dating scene like before i came and saved you?”

“a nightmare,” he deadpans, shaking his head. “i dated this one woman who kept asking me what my net worth was. another one wanted me to choose between her and my career, and that's not even including the ones who just... couldn't handle the long hours, or the demanding work of being with a defence attorney of all people.”

hiromi gives you a rueful smile, but there's a subtle trace of bitterness in his eyes. “i was starting to think my only life partner would be my job.”

you hum sympathetically at that. “i can imagine…” and you trail off, before letting curiosity slip into the conversation.

“did you ever expect to be married by now?” and then you’re backtracking a little, sheepishly waving your hands. “not that there’s anything wrong with being unmarried at your age—!” you add, to which hiromi laughs at your sincerity, leaning backwards into the seat, arms folded.

“and, of course i don’t think you’re old by any means… I’m just… curious, is all.”

he makes a noise of understanding, nodding. “i’ve always thought i would be married before i turned thirty-five,” he admits quietly, taking another sip of the wine in his glass.

hiromi looks down at his hands, a little abashed as he says, “...i know, i know. it doesn't make sense. i’m relatively young; i’m successful. hell, i’ve even been told i’m attractive, which is really strange to say out loud.”

you laugh and so does he, but there's that rueful sort of edge to it again. “i guess i just never met the right woman.”

“did you ever get close to?” you ask, finger dancing over the rim of your cup.

he lets out a humorless sort of huff, scrubbing a hand over his face as he thinks.

“once or twice,” he confesses, “i got close a couple of times. things were going well, and i thought we were on the same page, and then... suddenly, they'd realize the hours were too stressful. or i was too obsessed with my job. or we just wanted... different things.”

hiromi glances at you across the table, grey eyes steady as he says, “it never worked out for one reason or another.”

you hum again, pondering… thinking.

“that’s fair… unfortunately, i can’t fault it. long hours can really make or break a relationship. it’s always that, coupled with miscommunication.”

“miscommunication,” he repeats, almost grimly, the word itself leaving a tart taste in his mouth.

he says your name, shaking his head. “you have no idea. i’ve been told i was too 'emotionally distant', that i don't show enough affection. that i expect people to read my mind. hell, i’ve even had women walk out because they said i was 'too intense'.”

he snorts.

“i’m not that difficult, am i?”

you go noticeabley quiet at that, eyes widening before they dart back to your finger playing with the rim of your wine glass. “difficult?…that’s a loaded word.”

he cocks his head at the hesitance in your voice, as if he can practically see you gearing up to respond with some sort of placating bullshit— you're too nice, too kind —so he speaks before you can.

“please," he says softly. “be honest. i can take it.”

you open and close your mouth, looking at him with pitying eyes for a second before sighing defeatedly, looking down at your half eaten meal.

“i actually think it might be the opposite… you’re not…” and you trail off, nibbling your bottom lip gently.

“i don’t know how to articulate this in a way that doesn’t sound too presumptuous or… insulting.”

“then don't sugarcoat it.”

hiromi’s voice is quiet but steady, eyes locked on yours despite the forlorn look of something… not as hard hitting as agony, but not as unassuming as pain.

"i’m asking because i want to know. not for comfort. so say it—whatever it is."

you sigh again, this time deeply.

“i don’t think you’re intense enough.”

he blinks at that, caught completely off guard by the response. you could see that he was bracing himself for something bad — probably waiting for you to list all the things he was used to hearing from past relationships. this was probably the last thing he was expecting.

hiromi’s lips part, grey eyes widening ever so slightly.

“...say that again?”

you look up at him from your plate, swallowing thickly.

“…i… i like you a lot, hiromi… and i know it’s very early days into this relationship,” and you say that a little quieter than the rest, “but sometimes… sometimes it feels like you don’t… like me all that much, at least, not as much as i do.”

you scoff, face warming a bit under the strobe light of the dining room. “god, i sound like an immature school girl with an unrequited crush.”

hiromi’s throat seemingly goes completely dry, all the air leaving his lungs in a quiet whoosh. “...what makes you think that?”

you shrug, shaking your head, picking up your fork to drag a stray piece of broccolini stem across your plate, back and forth, back and forth.

“it’s silly now that i think about saying it out loud.”

immediately, his expression softens, almost pained by the hesitance in your voice.

he looks at the uncertainty in your eyes and you don’t fail to notice that his arms twitch, as if he wills them to stay by his side.

“please,” he repeats softly. “tell me. why would you think for even a second that i don't like you?”

“it’s not that i think you don’t like me, or that you don’t enjoy my company to a certain degree…” and you trail off, looking up at him, eyes soft and gentle but a little nervous.

“i… just… sometimes, beyond our sexual chemistry… i never know what you’re thinking… you don’t say much, nor do you call, o-or tell me what you’re really thinking. and i know, it’s only been a few months, so i’ve kept most of this to myself in fear of… scaring you away with my own intensity…”

the longer you speak, the more the breath leaves your body, and the more his expression grows solemn in nature.

hearing the quiet insecurity in your own voice makes your chest ache in a way you can’t control, and you’re sure hiromi feels it too, with the way he shakes his head slowly, as if trying to clear it.

“...you can't be serious,” he murmurs. “...of course i like you. more than like you. i thought that was obvious.”

you’re still rendered unable to look him in his warm grey eyes.

“i know you like me, of course i do… but i don’t know…” and you trail off, the vegetables on your plate thoroughly covered in sauce and gravy now.

“i just… i’ve never stayed the night, nor have you offered… and i know, i know it’s immature of me when i could just ask, and you’d more than likely say yes, but…”

the words get stuck again, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat.

“i don’t know. it’s stupid. i’m sorry.”

meanwhile, hiromi is stunned into momentary silence.

almost immediately, he reaches across the table, fingers closing gently around your wrist.

“no,” he breathes, eyes pleading. "it’s not stupid, not at all. look at me.”

you looks at his hand enclosed around your wrist, before meeting his earnest gaze, still waiting… quiet and expectant.

his grip tightens ever so slightly.

"you’re not stupid," he repeats, his voice even more gentle. “don’t apologise. i’m not upset, i just... i can't believe you've been feeling this way and i never knew. i was so worried about scaring you off, i’d never even thought to consider about how you'd view me during all of this.”

his thumb brushes over your pulse point, feeling your racing heart beneath his fingertips.

it’s your turn to look at him in disbelief.

“you’ve been worried about scaring me off?”

his free hand runs anxiously through his hair, frustration clear in his expression.

“of course i have,” he confesses. “you’ve no idea how much i’ve tried to keep myself in check — to keep myself from going too hard, saying too much, going too fast... i didn't want to scare you off or make you think i was clingy.”

his thumb continues to brush circles across your wrist, the motion so soothing, so subconscious, he doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it helps lower your guard nonetheless, as he has you huffing out a laugh now, way more relieved and very sheepish.

“i… i had no idea… now i feel silly for assuming the worst. i’m sorry.”

“don’t say that,” he murmurs, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

“i should have been more straightforward from the very beginning, i just... i didn't want to push you. i figured you'd want to take things slow. that you'd want space. i didn't want to...”

he scoffs, his voice growing thick. “...i didn't want to come on too strong too early on and end up losing you.”

you slide your wrist out of his hand to replace it with your palm instead.

the moment your hand slides into his— warm, steady, and oh so, sure —something inside him cracks open like a gently steamed egg. his breath hitches.

“i really like what we have, hiromi… and i’d like us to be serious. i want you to want me even if you think i’ll reject you… because nine times out of ten, i’m most definitely thinking the same thing as you.”

hiromi looks down at your joined hands, then back up at your face. the softness in your eyes undoes him completely.

“... i want that too," he agrees quietly. “more than anything.”

you nod, smiling at him. “okay, then. it’s settled.”

the both of you just stare at each other, his eyes that bore into yours wordlessly converse with your own weighted gaze, hopeful and filling in the gaps of what doesn’t need to be conveyed.

“so…” you finally voice, “what would you like to do after dessert?”

hiromi’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand this time, absentminded.

his adam’s apple bobs and settles before he clears his throat.

“i have somewhat of an idea," he says, voice low and sultry, “but it might make me a bit of a bastard to suggest it out loud.”

you shrug, your other hand sliding atop their already conjoined ones. “i guess i’ll be the judge of that.”

hiromi’s eyes flicker down to where your hands encompasses his, and he sniffles thickly.

“…how would you feel if i suggested i spend the night at your place?"

you smile, almost showing all of your teeth.

“i’d really, really like that…” but then your face falls in innocent confusion. “though, i fail to see how that would make you look like a bastard.”

his eyes darken at your guileless smile, and he manages to keep his voice steady as he says, “...well. there is one caveat."

you narrow your eyes curiously, lips pouty.

“oh? what is it?”

for a second, hiromi is completely distracted by the pout of your lip, but when you squeeze his hand, he recalibrates, coughing with no cough backed up.

“well,” he says as casually as can be, fingers still brushing softly across your knuckles. “i have one or two... expectations, i suppose you could call them, for the night. if you're amenable, that is.”

you nod, eyes wide, still a little confused and unsure but ready to accommodate to his very preferences.

“i’m all ears— oh,” and realisation washes all over your face. “are you insinuating what i think you’re insinuating?”

seeing you begin to catch on spreads a slow, predatory smile across his lips.

he takes his time before answering, dragging out his words like silk. “that depends. what do you think i’m insinuating?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

you bite your bottom lip, before smiling innocently, shrugging.

“hey, you’re supposed to be the bastard right now. it wouldn’t be ladylike of me to say.”

a low, rumbling laugh escapes him — dark and full of promise.

“then i’ll say it for you.”

he leans across the table just slightly, voice dropping to a velvet murmur.

“i want to stay the night. and not just sleep,” and he says your name even quieter after, “i want to have you, touch you everywhere, taste every inch of your skin.”

hiromi’s hand glosses over your knuckles again and then your palm — slowly and deliberately.

“and if you're lucky... maybe i’ll let you get some sleep afterwards.”

your eyes widen, and after a pregnant pause, you inhale deeply, nodding as you pull your hand out of his grasp, standing abruptly from the table.

hiromi blinks, taken aback by the sudden loss of your touch. the beginning twist of a frown takes over his once keen expression as he watches you stand, his tone confused when he says your name, eyebrows furling. “are you oka—”

“how about we skip dessert for now?” you interject, taking the dishes from the table.

a marauding, lopsided grin spreads across his face once again.

“oh,” he says, standing slowly from the table, dangerous when he walks toward you, closing the distance until he's just behind you against the sink. his hands rest lightly on your hips. “i like that idea.”

he noses at your neck. “i guess dessert will be served,” he murmurs against your ear, lips soft.

you snort, placing the dishes in the sink, as you look behind your shoulder and up at him. “so cheesy.”

“maybe,” he admits unashamedly, his voice a low rumble against your ear. he doesn't move his hands from your hips despite your slight movements around the kitchen jostling him around. he knows it’s impractical, but he can’t seem to let go of you knowing what is yet to occur.

“but you're still standing here. still letting me touch you.”

his lips brush the shell of your ear as he adds, barely above a whisper:

“...and later tonight, when i’ve got you gasping and begging and completely undone, you'll be calling me a lot of things.”

he grins unabashedly against your skin.

“cheesy won't be one of them.”

with an airy sigh, you lean back in his touch, eyes fluttering at his touch and words, before you flicker them open, clearing your throat as you move his hands away.

“at least let me clean up before you try to seduce me, ‘romi,” you retort, opening the dishwasher.

his grip tightens on you instinctively when he hears it, but he has to let go of you when you push his hands away, albeit reluctantly, stepping back to let you clean up.

“you’re no fun,” he complains in a teasing, exasperated voice. "you really are going to make me wait, aren't you?"

“i’m not leaving dirty dishes in the sink because you want to get your dick wet,” you say crudely, turning to face him with folded arms and a smirk on your face.

“besides, aren’t you always telling me that patience is a virtue?”

he laughs tightly, shaking his head at the vulgar words coming out of your mouth, he then closes the distance between you to cage you in against the counter.

“not when the patience has me aching for you,” he maintains, voice low and rough. “you’re making it hard to behave.”

you let your hands slide up his chest, fiddling with the buttons on his dress shirt, a teasing smile on your face.

“are you that insatiable, my dear hiromi?”

his breath stutters in his chest as he watches you toying with the buttons on his dress shirt.

his eyes are hooded, darkened by pure, aching want.

“you have no idea.”

his pelvis dips in, pinning you even further against the kitchen counter.

“it’s taking every ounce of self-control i have to keep from hauling you off to the bedroom this very second. you’re going to drive me absolutely insane.”

you gasp when you feel the very presence of his desire for you — thick and wanting against his slacks, and you slide your hand down to his belt loops, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his jaw.

“is there any way i could incentivise you to wait a little while, at least until my kitchen doesn’t look like such a mess?”

a low, ragged groan escapes him as he feels your kiss on his jaw, the sound coming deep from within his chest.

when you suggest that he wait, he bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and when he speaks, his voice comes out thick.

“define a while.”

“no more than ten minutes,” you insist, your arms going to wrap around his waist.

he has to swallow, closing his eyes to ground himself when you wrap your arms around him. your touch is soft, gentle on purpose, but you’re sure that it is pure torture to him right now — like the sweetest fire engulfing you in its steady flames.

he takes a deep breath, inhaling your scent, before he growls low in his throat. “ten minutes,” he affirms, eyes opening to meet yours.

“you have ten minutes and then I'm having you.”

you smile, kissing his cheek before letting go. “go wait in the bedroom… i’ll be right there.”

he lets out an almost pained-sounding laugh when you kiss his cheek.

hiromi nods only once. “i’ll be waiting,” he says, voice gruff, full of barely-kept-together restraint.

he leaves the kitchen, heading to your bedroom, his thoughts already a mess of fantasies and wanting.

at just around seven and a half minutes, you saunter into your bedroom, your heels clicking and clacking against the hard floor, and you knock teasingly, a sultry smile on your lips as you lean by the doorway.

hiromi stands by the window — deliberately composed — but the moment he hears your heels, his control slips.

the low click-clack-click of your steps sends a thrill straight down his spine. he turns slowly, and there you are: leaning in the doorway like some kind of vision sent to ruin him.

his jaw tightens.

“cutting it close,” he murmurs, voice rough with hunger as his eyes drag over every inch of you. “i was about to come looking for you.”

you roll your eyes, walking up to him and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“i’m two minutes early. what happened to the ever so patient man i know, hmm?”

his hands find your waist instantly, like a pair of magnets fighting against gravitational pull.

“that man,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips are just a breath away from yours, “disappeared the second you kissed my jaw and let me know how badly you want me as i do you.”

a low hum vibrates in his chest as he finally closes the distance: not quite kissing you, but letting his lips ghost over yours with every word.

“you happened. you’re my kryptonite."

“that’s not good,” you pout, eyes flicking from his own to his lips.

“now there’s nothing stopping me from using my powers against you,” you tease, your lips one breath away from his.

a dark, thrilling laugh rumbles in his chest.

“oh, but you already have,” he whispers, lips brushing yours with every word. “every time you look at me like that… every time you touch me… i’m putty in your hands.”

his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you flush against him so there’s no space left between the both of you.

“but go ahead," he dares, voice low and rough. “use them.”

you roll your eyes. “like i said before… cheesy.”

you don’t let him retort, pulling him down by his loosened tie to kiss him deeply.

hiromi lets out a low, ragged sound the second your mouth touches his, like all the air leaving his lungs in a one swift rush.

he kisses you like a man starving, every kiss heavy and demanding, filled with a need that borders on desperation. he can't get close enough to you; he pulls you up hard against him, fingers slipping into your hair to hold you in place as he slides his tongue against yours.

your head spins, letting him overcrowd your very senses until your knees are buckling, until you're breathless and trembling in his hands.

you can’t help but whine haplessly into his mouth, your tongue gliding against his and you eventually pull apart, moving his hands off of you to hold him by the arm.

“take off your shoes.”

when you pull back, it takes him a moment to collect himself enough to hear your words.

he lets out a low, ragged laugh at your order, though he obeys immediately. his shoes get kicked off his feet and hit the floor with a thump and he looks at you, eyebrow raised.

“bossy,” he quips, his voice still rough. “you’re lucky i find it sexy.”

you kick off your own heels, tugging him by his arm till he’s at the edge of your expansive bed, and you push him down into the silky sheets and quilted pillows.

he lets himself be pushed back easily, his eyes darkened with desire as he looks up at you.

immediately, he reaches for you, wanting to haul you down on top of him.

“c'mere…" he murmurs, the words both an order and a plea.

you swat his hands away, but you comply anyway, climbing on top of him, your arms wrapping around his neck.

his breath hitches as you settle on top of him — warm, soft, perfect. “you’re killing me," he grunts against your lips, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your hips.

he arches slightly beneath you, silently begging for more.

“do you have any idea what you do to me?

you shake your head, laving wet kisses against his jaw, neck and the corner of his mouth, avoiding his lips that edge towards you.

“no… but i’d really like for you to tell me.”

his fingers dig into your hips as you kiss every inch of skin except his mouth and lets out a low, ragged swear when you drag your lips over his jaw, leaving his skin on fire.

“i ache,” he confesses, voice cracking, “i ache to touch you, to taste you, to be inside you. you’re all i think about sometimes — all i want… you drive me crazy.”

a pleased grin takes over your swollen lips, and you place your hands flat by his head as you look down at him. “good answer.”

you finally decide to take him out of his misery, sliding your arms around his neck again and then slotting your mouth over his.

he groans against your mouth, the sound coming from deep within him, the last thread of his restraint snapping.

without warning, he flips you both over so you're beneath him, his hips pushing between your legs, pinning you down against the bed.

his lips crush yours in a crushing, searing kiss. he parts your lips with his tongue, invading your mouth like a man starving. he kisses all sense of reason from you, his hands gripping your hips almost painfully tight.

you squeak against his lips when he does, your hands holding his face as you lick into his mouth with just as much passion and enthusiasm.

your arm lifts slightly to rest against the back of his neck, eyes rolling back under their lids as you moan into him.

he feels your moan vibrate against his mouth, sending fire through his veins.

his hands slide under your dress — slow at first, then bolder — as they glide up the soft skin of your thighs. a low noise rumbles in his chest when he feels you trembling beneath his touch.

“let me feel all of you,” he pleads, voice ragged with need as he grinds down harder, the heat between you almost unbearable. “please.”

you break the kiss with a wet pop!, pushing him onto his back and into the pillows as you kneel up on the bed.

“since you asked so nicely,” you tease with swollen, shiny lips, your hand pushing a strap down from your shoulder.

his breath comes fast and uneven as he watches you move over him, rasping out your name with a voice thick with desire, hands twitching at his sides like he's fighting not to reach for you.

but when you slowly push the strap down, revealing just a hint of skin, his control frays at the seams.

hiromi surges up suddenly, fast and smooth, flipping you beneath him once again in one swift motion.

“let me," he sighs against your ear. “let me undress you."

you giggle, but it’s only full of desire. “you’re so impatient, today, hiro… but please, be my guest.”

when you give him permission, he doesn't hesitate. his hands fly towards to the zipper behind you, tugging it down agonisingly slowly, letting each inch of skin reveal itself like a gift he's unwrapping with reverence.

“so beautiful," he murmurs raggedly, eyes dark and hungry. “i’ve been aching to see you like this again for days.”

you bite your lip, the straps of your dress falling down your shoulders loosely, the material around your breasts bunching up around you as hiromi pulls down the zip even further. his touch — even the most innocent touch — has your body on fire, your blood singing while every muscle in your body coils tight with aching.

“it hasn’t even been a full week since we last had sex,” you breathes, a little giggly and very infatuated with the man lying on top of you.

“every moment i’m not touching you is a moment too long, as far as I'm concerned,” he contends, leaning in to brush his lips feather-soft against your neck.

as the dress drops away from your top half, he drinks in the sight of you, like a man dying of thirst. “christ, you're gorgeous.”

you open your mouth to retort teasingly, but instead you just sigh when his lips touch your skin, the dress bunching and falling to sit around your waist, inadvertently revealing your bare breasts to him, and surprisingly, a silver bar in your left nipple.

hiromi’s eyes land on that small, shining piece of metal with a sharp intake of breath.

for a moment, all he does is stare, his heart hammering in his chest.

“you got a piercing,” he murmurs, voice coarse. “and you didn't tell me?

he can't help himself; he reaches, calloused fingers tracing lightly over the skin over the shiny metal. it’s like a jolt to his monkey brain receptors, seeing you like this. “when did you get this?”

you bite your lip, a soft groan leaving your throat.

“back during my rebellious university days… took it out once i grew my frontal lobe,” you tell, then your eyelashes flutter to where he thumbs around the hardened peak, “but i put it back in every now and then so it doesn’t close up… i never meant to not tell you, hiro.”

meanwhile, you can tell hiromi is so overwhelmed right now: by you, by the sight of you like this, and all he can do is take a slow, sharp inhale as his fingers runs over the jewelry.

“it’s...holy, it's sexy," he mutters, his eyes still fixed on your chest as his thumb and forefinger run feather-light over the cold titanium. “jesus, i don't think i’ve ever been more turned on by something in my entire life.”

you can only just let out a bubble of laughter, eyes hazy at how fascinated he is with a simple piercing on your body. it soon breaks off into a moan when his fingertip flicks against the skin.

“you sure know how to make a woman feel beautiful.”

“you are beautiful,” he murmurs quicky, voice thick with veneration, with you at the altar. “every inch of you.”

his lips find your neck again, soft, hot kisses trailing down to your collarbone. then lower.

when his mouth hovers just above the silver bar, he looks up at you through his lashes — dark eyes burning with hot desire.

“may i?” he asks, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

you keen at his words, the way he’s looking at you right now doing little to quell the flames in your lower belly.

a sharp whine leaves your throat before you can stop yourself, nodding. “of course, hiro.”

his whole body responds to the way you give him consent, shuddering while his groin drags a little against you. he has to take a moment to compose himself, though the moment lasts less than a few seconds because he then he lowers his head, mouth closing around the sensitive, metal-clad nipple. he sucks gently at first, his warm, soft tongue moving in slow, languid licks.

there’s something so oddly intimate about this, despite the obviousness of him almost having you. it can't be described with mere words — you just... feel completely taken with him, and you know he feels the exact same. it has you wanting to slap yourself for ever second guessing how he feels about you.

your eyes flutter shut, a hand weaving into his strands as he sucks the sensitive peak, a flurry of gentle whines and whimpers leaving your lips in succession.

the sound of your whimpers — soft and needy — has him sucking harder, teeth grazing. one hand press further onto your hips, wanting to keep you here like this for as long as possible, while the other slides up to your other less than decorated nipple, fingers pinching and pulling at the skin.

“that’s it, sweetheart," he whispers softly, lips trailing a path up your chest. “let me hear you.”

his hand moves then, tracing down the flat of your stomach, his fingertips dipping beneath the waistband of whatever's still left of your dress.

you hum, helping him pull down the rest of your dress as you shimmy, till you’re fully naked, save for your cotton panties, a cute navy blue with a growing damp spot in the middle of it.

“jesus...” he breathes, voice raw when he says your name as he takes in the sight of you — flushed, trembling, so wet for him already.

hiromi’s fingers trace the damp spot over your panties with agonizing slowness, watching your hips twitch beneath his touch.

“so responsive,” he murmurs. “so perfect.”

he leans down until his mouth hovers just above the fabric. “can i take these off?”

you nod incessantly, watching as his deft fingers curl into the waistband.

you’re a little breathless when you eventually speak while his hands drag down your thighs with your permission, pushing them together slowly. “just for the record, while i think the fact that you ask for my consent is really sexy… i always want you to touch me, hiro.”

his breathing stutters at your words, his fingers now back on the edge of your panties.

a low, ragged sound rumbles from the depth of his chest.

“oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, eyes dark and hazy with need. “i will never forget you said that.”

his fingers slide beneath the fabric, tugging softly. “lift your hips for me, baby.”

you comply obediently, lifting your hips and letting hiromi slide your underwear down your legs, a slight string of your wetness snapping and pooling against the cotton of the panties.

he watches every movement, entranced and breathless as the last scrap of fabric finally falls away, leaving you bare under his ravenous gaze and preying hands.

the glistening heat between your thighs steals his voice completely; all he can do is crawl back up your body, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thigh… then higher… until his breath fans over you, searing and eager.

“so pretty," he says to himself. “so wet.”

hiromi looks up at you one last time before he leans in:

“let me taste you.”

you bite your lip, eyelashes fluttering when you feel a puff of balmy air over your sensitive folds, your hole clenching over nothing, eyes lidded as you watch just how close he gets to where you want — no — need him.

“are you asking or are you telling?” you breathe out, voice sliced thick with unrepentant desire.

hiromi chuckles softly, eyes still fixed on your core as he edges closer.

“i’m telling,” he says, subdued in its tone. “i just want to make you feel good.”

his mouth is so close that it's almost like he's speaking against you. “can i, sweetheart? please," he mutters, eyes meeting yours in a way he knows you can't resist. “let me taste you.”

you whines at the way he speaks to you, it going straight to your already leaky core while your mind turns to mush even before he can even get his mouth on you. you end up just nodding dumbly.

“o-okay. yes, please.”

“good girl,” he responds, the words barely above a whisper, like a secret just for you and him.

and then his mouth is on you, hot and sure and devastating. he laps at you like he's been starving, slow at first to savor every drop, then deeper, hungrier. his tongue circles your clit with just the right pressure — one hand sliding under your lower back to hold you steady as his lips close around that sensitive nub.

“mmm,” he groans against you, on purpose but also not, feeling how your entire body jolts at the sensation.

you taste sweet and sharp all at once.

your mouth falls slack, your hand weaving into his thick dark strands as a saccharine moan flies out of your mouth.

“oh, hiro—” you sigh breathily, lidded eyes watching the way he devours at you, the way the curve of his nose digs into your puffy little clit, his groans sending little pulses of sharp pleasure through you, your essence flowing out of your tensing hole.

when he hears name on your lips like that, it nearly unravels him.

he growls against your slovenly cunt, drinking in the way you shudder and pulse under his mouth. the more you drip, the deeper he laps at you, chasing every drop. his tongue circles your clit again and again before he pulls back just enough to blow softly over your wet heat.

“so responsive,” he grunts heavily. “do you like it when i eat you out like this?”

he doesn't wait for an answer: he instead just dips two slender fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right as his mouth closes over your clit again with an intense suction.

you cry out, your fingers tugging on his hair a little tighter as he curves two fingers inside your wet cavern. a breathy “oh, fuck Hiro” climbs out of your chest, and you subconsciously raise your hips against him, body like a live wire when the curve of his angular nose digs into your clit in tandem with his soothing yet bullying tongue.

on the other hand, the way you tug on hiromi’s hair makes him shiver, the vibration travelling from his mouth to your body.

pulling his mouth away from your core ever so slowly, his fingers work even deeper, crooking just right as he looks up at you through thick, dark lashes. “say it again,” he demands, his breath fanning against your inner thigh. “my name. i want to hear it again.”

“hi-hiro,” you stutter, a heavy moan tearing out of your esophagus when his blunt fingers catch against that spongy spot inside of you, your back arching. “fuck, ‘m close… slow down… i’m gon’... ‘m gonna make a mess—!”

“yeah?” he double checks, fingers moving in fast, torturous circles.

“you want me to slow down, sweet thing?” he dips his head, kissing your inner thigh with a wet open mouth. “but i thought i was gonna make a mess of you. isn’t that what i promised, sweetheart?”

he sucks a mark into the skin — dark and blooming like the others, a quiet claim in the midst of your harvesting orgasm.

“you’re so close,” he groans in awe. “so pretty when you're about to come all over my fingers, sweetheart.”

you shake your head as if trying to will away the intensity of what’s to come, intaking a sharp breath as your stomach tenses, eyes rolling back, your mouth dropping in a silent scream as you cum all over Hiromi’s fingers and face, squirting clear liquid all over him.

you warble out his name in a sea of “oh fuck Hiro, right there, don’ stop, ‘m cumming, oh Hiro—” riding out your peak against his mouth, nose and fingers.

all the while, hiromi doesn't pull away. he can’t, not does he want to.

the moment you cry out his name, he groans low and deep, fingers still pumping deep inside you, curling them just right as your walls clamp down hard and arduous.

his lips stays locked around your clit — sucking gently, rhythmically — as you sob through your orgasm, and even as your body tenses and spasms into oversensitivity, he doesn’t stop.

he drinks your arousal like a man possessed, and his cock is painfully hard now, straining against his slacks as he grinds into the mattress below.

hiromi drags every last wave from you with slow thrusts of his fingers and soft flicks of his tongue until you’re whimpering, pushing weakly at his shoulders.

when your trembling begins to subside, he pulls back slowly: lips glistening and slick with your release. he looks up at you through hooded satisfied eyes, kissing your inner thigh gently.

you pant breathlessly, looking down at him for a second before collapsing despite already lying down, boneless. when you come to, you cover your face when you see the dampness on the sheets that still drips from your boyfriend’s face.

“please, please don’t tell me i squirted on you,” you say, muffled.

he smiles against the skin of your inner thigh, teeth grazing gently, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your blanched flesh as he watches you try to collect yourself.

“oh, sweet thing,” he coos at you, “is that what you're worried about? that you made a mess?”

he kisses right behind your knee as he pulls his fingers from you slowly, bringing them to his lips and humming in deep, vulgar satisfaction as he sucks each one clean. “i don't mind a little mess.”

you groan behind your hands, shaking your head.

“you don’t understand, hiromi… i’ve literally never done that before… i’m mortified.”

he chuckles quietly against your skin, his hands continuing to move across your body like he can’t keep them still after witnessing you fall from grace, like he just needs to be touching you.

“sweetheart, you have nothing to be embarrassed about, i promise,” he states, matter of fact.

hiromi reaches up to pull your hands away from your face, looking at you with eyes full of a tenderness that nearly burns your skin raw.

“look at me.”

you sigh, opening your bleary eyes to look down at him, letting him pull your hands away.

he looks into your eyes, his gaze locked and intense, still dark and hungry behind his usually warm and sated pupils.

“you don't have to be embarrassed," he repeats, his thumb stroking your thigh. "i liked it.”

his eyes drop to your lips and he wets his own, tongue darting out. “it made me feel so good to make you feel so good, sweetheart," he admits softly.

you can’t help but pout nonetheless. “…really?”

“baby,” he lets out, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your thigh. “i swear i loved it. i love feeling you lose control like that… knowing that i’m the one to make you—” he presses another kiss to your skin. “—feel—” kiss. “—so—”kiss. “—good.”

you sighs as he litters kisses all over your skin, chewing on your bottom lip to wane the noises that want to come pouring out. “hiro…”

the man in question lifts himself over you slowly, bracing on one arm as the other trails up your side. his lips hover just above yours.

“yeah, sweetheart?” he asks, a thick palm sliding up your soft belly, to grope at your breast, before tipping your chin upwards to him. “what do you want?”

you just… shake your head. “nothing… just want you.”

the simplicity of your words have him sighing.

“you have me," his gaze locking with yours as he grinds up his clothed core between your legs, his body settling against yours. he brushes up your cheek, thumb grazing your bottom lip. “all of me. you know that, right?”

you nod sweetly, tongue darting out to lave over his thumb. a cloying mhmm leaves your throat.

hiromi is entranced — absolutely spellbound by the sight of your tongue on his thumb and the little sound that leaves your throat in accompaniment.

“so greedy already," he tuts, sucking through his teeth as he presses his thumb gently against the wet muscle. “can’t keep your mouth off of me, even for a second, huh?”

the words are set to be teasing, and a little humiliating but all you do is shake your head, closing your eyes, sucking on his thumb with more force before blinking them back open, your eyes boring into his own, wide and wet.

the sight of you like this: lips parted, eyes wide, sucking gently on his thumb, has him pushing his thumb deeper between your lips.

“you’re going be the death of me, you know that?” he breathes. “so sweet. so pretty.”

you exhale faintly at his words, your teeth dancing around the digit, refusing to break eye contact for even a second.

hiromi lets out a slow, shaky rumble when your teeth skims his thumb. his eyes darken, jaw tightening as he watches you with barely restrained hunger.

“keep looking at me like that,” he grunts, sotto voce, "and i won't be able to go slow as i want.”

his hips shift forward instinctively, the clothed, hard length of him pressing against your thigh insistently.

“do you want me to fuck you now, sweetheart?”

your head bobs up and down wordlessly, your lips still pursed around his thumb that still slides against your tongue, eyelashes fluttering when you feel him hard against you despite the layers of all his clothes.

he groans at your silent answer, but it’s simply not enough.

hiromi pulls his thumb from your mouth slowly, pressing a quick, soft kiss to the corner of your lips. “you’re going to have to use your words for me, sweetheart,” he insists, “i want to hear you say it.”

much too pent up to retort or feel any shame about your desire for the man in front of you, you steadily oblige, a deep, warm suspiration of air leaving your chest.

“please fuck me, hiro.”

a guttural, ragged sound rips from his throat at the sound of his name coupled with your words, the wanting in your voice completely unravelling what's left of his control.

he kisses you roughly, teeth nipping at your bottom lip. “since you said that so politely...”

you smile against his lips, wrapping your arms around him as he utters those words against you, your legs spreading to wrap around his hips.

hiromi kisses you even harder now, his tongue delving in deep, his fingers gripping your bare ass as he pulls you against him.

in haste, his hands begin fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to shed the fabric keeping him from you.

he pulls away, fixing you with darkened gaze as he undoes away his tie, flinging it over the edge of the bed before shrugging out of his shirt, his eyes never leaving yours. he’s impatient, almost hurried, like he needed to be inside you yesterday or else he might go insane.

the dark haired men looks like he's barely holding on as he pulls a gold foil wrapper from his trouser pocket, black swallowed pupils watching you tentatively now, waiting to see if you’ll say no to him in any way shape or form (and although he would appease to whatever you wanted at the time, he’s convinced he might actually break right now).

you’re the only thing holding his control together, and he needs to know he can touch you right now.

you lean back, watching with longing filled eyes as hiromi strips, till he’s just as bare as you are.

his body is all lean muscle and sharp lines as he spreads his legs, ripping open the foil packet to pull out the latex.

he looks at you again, and the way you're watching him like you want to devour him alive steals whatever teasing words that he had locked and loaded at that moment.

he says your name with a rasp, clear ing his throat. “are you sure?” while rolling the condom down his pulsing length slowly. “last chance to stop.”

even though they both know there's no going back: not when he's already kneeling between your thighs, and especially not when your legs are already parting for him without his hands intervening.

you blink slowly at him, akin to a sated cat, a saccharine lilt to the sigh that leaves you, giggling breathily.

“i know you mean well, babe, but asking me if i’m sure while you roll a condom over your really hard dick…” and you trail off with a raised brow, opening your arms as you settle further into the sheets.

“just come over here already.”

he hisses out a laugh at your words, before letting rip a deep, guttural groan as his gaze drops down to the shine between your thighs. he quickly obeys, crawling forward until he's sitting up on his haunches over you.

“so bossy, sweetheart,” he sighs, hands roaming over your legs, and simply put: he cannot get enough of you. “i like it.”

you can’t help but quirk up the corner of your lips, your arms wrapping around his back, hands pressed against the planes his shoulders, your legs spreading to wrap around him.

he inhales coarsely as you pull him closer, your legs locking around his waist like a vice now.

hiromi leans down, brushing a soft peck to your lips tenderly, before dragging it to your ear.

“ready?” he rustles, the tip of him nudging against your heat, already slick and welcoming.

you give him the okay with a dip of your head, eyes looking up at him wide eyed and full of anticipation. “ready.”

a slow, steady exhale leaves him as he lines up, observing the rise and fall of your tensing stomach and fluttering eyes, the hand resting between your bodies guiding him to you.

he doesn't look away even as the thick tip of him breaches past the first ring of muscle, to which the both of you moan synchronously.

hiromi takes one of your hands, threading your fingers with his.

it’s so intimate that’s it’s almost heart-stopping.

“you okay?" he asks, every part of him so aware of how vulnerable you look and are right now.

you utter out a delicate, “mhmm,” a docile noise following soon after when you feel the rest of his weighty cock push through your wet cavern.

he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingers binding around your hand.

“you feel so good," he gasps, his voice bumpy with barely tethered restraint.

he then stops for a moment, stilling to let you adjust, not wanting to hurt you.

“you okay, my love?” he whispers and asks again, scanning your face, to which your thumb brushes over the back of his hand that rests over your head.

“yeah… keep going… please.”

he leans down to smooch your forehead. “anything you want, sweetheart," he rumbles, his hips pressing forward slowly, sinking into you inch by inch until he's deep inside you, and you're both completely joined, and that feeling you’ve both never been able to shake finally makes sense.

harmonious groans leave your lips, your pussy stretching to accommodate his girth, and it’s still a struggle even though you’ve been thoroughly prepped.

looking down ever so slightly, your chest rises and falls heavily as you break eye contact to look at where your cunt is wrapped around his cock, folds swallowing up his length and sucking him in further.

the sight of you — glistening and perfect — has hiromi letting out an uncharacteristic moan, loud and brazen.

“jesus—” he hisses, your name coming out wobbly. it’s all too much, yet he can't even look away: but neither can you.

his hips twitch forward on instinct, not pulling out yet —just pressing deeper into you with a slow roll of his pelvis that makes your breath hitch and your thighs didder around him.

“feel that?" he croaks hoarsely. “all of me... for you.”

he leans down until his damp lips brush yours.

“look at me when I'm inside you," he pleads. “please.”

you tilt your head up, locking your lips with his wetly, eyes up at him. your nails dig softly into the scruff of his neck, and you lift a thigh to sit comfortably around his waist.

the way you look at him has him groaning, so he kisses you again, more thorough this time, pouring everything into it. his hips begin to move — slow at first, a gentle roll that draws a whimper from your throat.

“so sweet," he murmurs against your lips. “so damn sweet.”

hiromi’s hand slips between your bodies to touch where you’re joined, and then he’s stroking two fingers gently over your clit in small circles as his cock slides almost bottomless inside you again.

“feel good?”

you choke on a gasp, your hand flying down to hold his wrist, keeping it there as you nod.

“feels so good,” you whine. “more, hiro.”

he growls low in his throat at the sound of those words, his gaze locking onto your eyes.

“more?” he asks, breath hot on your lips. “say please, sweetheart.”

“please,” you whimper obediently and instantaneous, too wound up to retort with any sarcastic witticisms.

he rewards you with a slow, penetrating thrust, just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch, before pulling almost all the way out.

“like that?” he soughs, “or do you want it harder?”

he doesn't wait for a response this time.

with a sharp snap of his hips, he drives into you - deep and sudden - and it has you clenching down on him with every push and pull.

you squeal in ecstasy, each drag of his veiny, thick cock against your sensitive walls sending you reeling. you swear you can feel the beat of his heart inside of you as his length fucks into you, fast, wet and noisy.

one of your legs start to slip from his waist from the sheer force of his thrusts, and without breaking his rhythm, he catches it firmly to drape it over his shoulder.

“there you go, pretty thing,” he chuckles affectionately. “let me take care of you.”

the new angle makes you gasp as he sinks even deeper - each stroke hitting that sweet spot like he was made to fit right here.

he leans in close, brushing a kiss to the inside of your knee, and then up to your thigh.

hiromi’s hands finds yours again, fingers lacing tight and over your head.

your eyes practically roll back into your skull, and there’s nowhere to hide as hiromi forces your arms over your head, masking the desire of wanting to see your face wound up in pleasure with an act of romanticism.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he groans. “so perfect.”

in any other situation, you would make fun of him, teasing him for being such a romantic, but this new position has you speechless, practically sobbing as you feel the head of his cock press so much deeper, heeding the ceiling of your cervix. your eyes begin to water with pleasure, and your fingers tighten around his own, your nails digging into his knuckles.

every whimper and desperate noise that falls from your lips is symphonic, and hiromi cannot get enough.

he needs you closer.

he lets go of your hands to wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you up - so you're sitting in his lap, your arms snaking around his neck on instinct, your faces so close, every shaky breath washing over the other's skin.

“there you go.”

he starts to thrust up into you with a renewed fervour, like he was born to do this - to love you like this. each snap of his hips draws a gasping sob from your throat, and he feeds on it. “that’s it… take all of me.”

you cry into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck tighter as you pull him closer, mouth sloppily slotting over his, all teeth and saliva and tongue — hardly even a kiss at this point, but you’re desperate, wanting to be as close to him as possible.

this new position has him bouncing you up and down his cock, hips thrusting at a pace that starts to get sloppy, and you can tell what that means.

“you close? i…’m close,” you moan, eyes hazy.

hiromi breaks the kiss with a gasp, forehead dropping to yours, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“so close,” he groans, voice broken. “you’re killing me, sweetheart — so tight, so wet, fuck.”

his thrusts grow deeper, more uneven; he can't hold back anymore, so one hand slides between your bodies again to rub tight circles over your swollen clit.

“come for me," he grunts against your lips. “please,” and your name comes out half a syllable or two. “…let go.”

he’s barely moving inside you now, with hiromi dragging his cock back nice and slow against that spot deep inside that makes your vision blur with white-hot pleasure.

you grunt a little animalistically when his thumb returns to your overworked love button, your thighs seizing on either side of hiromi, your nails digging into his back, sure to leave red, stinging welts.

“oh god, hiro—” you sob, tongue lolling out of your mouth. “fuck, ‘m—” and you gasp sharply, choking sweetly as you cum, eyes lulling back, vision turning white as you babble nothings that make sense to nobody, throwing your mouth over his to moan onto his tongue, all the while you creams all over his cock.

watching you hit your peak causes hiromi’s hips to stutter, then still deep inside you as the orgasm rips through him, violent and blinding.

“sh-shit—“ he chokes out against your mouth, your name following soon after as his body bows forward, pressing you into the mattress as he empties himself into the condom with a low, shuddering groan.

his breath comes in dilapidated bursts against your skin, sweat-slicked and trembling in your arms. he pants against your cheek, body still shaking, his hand stroking your hair in reverent tenderness.

“that... was incredible,” he gasps, voice still raspy from how badly he fought for breath. “i don’t think i’ve ever —fuck — come that hard.”

he presses his lips on your pout, but softly this time, his breath then hot on your neck as he nuzzles his face against it, leaving a kiss right behind your ear. “feeling okay, sweet thing?” he whispers. “i didn't hurt you, did i…? think i got a little too carried away at the end there.”

you shake your head, eyes fluttering shut as he presses wet kisses onto your moist skin.

“no, fuck no,” you contend. “that was probably the best sex of my life.”

hiromi laughs at that, the sound low and affectionate.

“yeah?” he smirks, pressing another kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder. “best you've ever had, huh?”

he lifts his head to look at you, a cocky little grin settling on his face.

“guess i did a pretty good job, then," he says, clearly pleased with himself.

you hum, and mirror a smile back at him, nosing his damp hair. “it was more than pretty good, hiro.”

he nuzzles into your post-sex affections, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, then another just below your ear.

“you’re gonna make me fall in love with you,” he jokes quietly.

then he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes full of warmth, yet dark.

“if i haven't already.”

you raise a brow at him, your lips curled up slightly. “i mean… isn’t that the goal?”

he chuckles smoothly, shaking his head with a smirk. “you’re going to get a big head at this rate, sweetheart,”he teases, wrapping you further into his arms .

“can’t help it when the sexy man in my bed thinks my pussy is that good it could make him fall in love,” you tease.

he groans, half-laughing, half-groaning at your words. “what a way with words, my love,” he mutters, pressing his face into your neck, as if to try and hide the way you make him feel.

it’s hapless anyhow, since he can't help the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, the affection so plain and simple even in the way he speaks to you.

“but to answer your previous question… yes," he murmurs earnestly, lips still brushing over your skin like a painter and his most prized canvas. “i hope so.”

there’s a pregnant pause before you hum. “… i hope so too.”

however, he lifts his head after, eyes locking with yours - serious now.

“for the record," he says softly, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "It's not just your…pussy, or how you’d put it—” to which you laugh, and to which he kisses you to shut you up.

“…it’s you.”

you break out into a fit of light giggles anyway, holding his face to kiss all over his sharp and curved angles: from his nose to his cheekbones.

“and, for the record,” you mock teasingly, “it’s not just your gorgeous nose or big di—”

hiromi presses a hand over your mouth before you can finish that sentence, face reddening. “you can't say that,” he protests weakly.

“god, you’re shameless, woman," he grumbles, shaking his head at you.

you snort into his hand, all the while you ever so accidentally clench around hiromi’s softening penis that’s still inside of you.

you wiggle your brows up at him, amused when he jerks at the sudden clench (half-limp, half-alive, it’s hard to tell) and lets out a strangled groan.

“you're evil,” he hisses, eyes squeezing shut as if to hold back the feeling. “absolute nightmare.”

but his pelvis still twitches forward on instinct — he truly can't help it — his cock stirring again inside you with a slow, traitorous throb.

he glares down at you through heavy lashes. "don’t do that again.” his voice cracks halfway through.

“you say that but i can feel you getting hard all over again, baby,” and you whisper the last part like it’s shameful.

you pullshim down by his neck to kiss against the husk of his ear. “what’s the consensus on a round two? i’m thinking that we take a little break before we resume activities.”

he shudders as your words almost drown him from the outright viscosity, his body already responding at the mere suggestion.

“a break... sounds good,” he mumbles against your skin, planting a kiss between your shoulder and neck once more. “i’ll go get something to clean up."

hiromi pulls back, slipping out of you, making you hiss at the removal, stretching your back with a groan as you then wander around the bedroom, throwing on an oversized hoodie and some panties.

when hiro returns from the bathroom, you grin at him, passing him some folded items. “here. i, uh, have some spare men’s clothes,” to which hiromi raises a brow and you gasp in exaggerated offence, shoving his shoulder playfully, “don’t give me that look—! i like the way men’s stuff fits sometimes…” and you drop the articles into his hand. “consider this impromptu sleepover the prequel to so many better, more prepared ones in our future.”

hiromi watches you, dazed and perhaps still a little drunk on you, but he manages to laugh at the defensive grin on your face. he takes the clothes, unfolding them and glancing between them and you.

“and you’re sure you want me to stay the night?" he asks, as if you won't actually want him to.

you can only roll your eyes, deadpanning.

“baby. i am 100% sure… i would’ve liked to have gotten this crossed off of our list sooner but…” you shrug with some diffidence. “next time it can be your place… if you want.”

he’s already tugging on the soft cotton shirt as you speak. “of course i want you at my place,” he says. “anytime. any night. every night, if we can.”

he cups your face gently, his thumb brushes over your cheek. “if that's what you want too.”

you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pull him down for multiple wet smooches. “of course it’s what i want, silly.”

he kisses you back at your pace: romantic and thorough, then teasing and humorously.

“good,” he murmurs against your lips. “really good.”

he envelops his arms around you, pulling you flush against him despite the layers now between your bodies.

“then i’ll hold you to it.”

sure, he's breathing, and sure, his heart's beating — but reanimated corpses aren't alive. he's scarred flesh, and broken bones, and torn muscle, and reattached limbs. not a human, but a thing in the form of a man. and the funny thing about his condition, is that he will have to endure this, not living, for years, and years to come. until bone becomes ash, and his name is a whisper in the wind.

over time, he had grown to accept his fate — this life of solitude. but then he met you. and suddenly, the world got a little less lonelier. life was no longer the monotonous drag that it used to be, but something that he started to see as precious. every new day spent with you was unpredictable, exciting, and electric. and he hadn't felt like that in a long, long time. he decided then, that this was something he wanted to live for — that you were something he wanted to live for.

today is your three year anniversary. three years of knowing you, loving you, living for you. when he woke up this morning, you were still sound asleep, cuddled into his side, lips upturned in a soft smile, as if you were dreaming about something sweet. he likes waking up before you because he gets to witness you in your most relaxed state. makes his chest feel all tight, and his stomach flutter like a teenage boy. usually, he'd watch you sleep and wait for you to wake up, but he wanted to surprise you this morning.

which is why he's now in line at the nearest market, with flowers in one hand, a corny card, and a basket of all your favorite snacks. just something for you to wake up to, since the plans he made weren't until much later in the day.

"cash or card?" asks the cashier.

"uh, card and—" yuuji starts, scanning the wall behind the counter, "a pack of those right there." he points to a pack of seven stars. the cashier scans it through and throws it in the bag along with the other items.

"that'll be 5000 yen." yuuji reaches for his wallet, pulling out his card. he waits for the pinpad to light up and then he swipes it. the cashier offers him a receipt but he declines.

he leaves the store with the flowers and bag in tow, and starts heading over to the train station. on his way there, he passes a few stores he thinks you might like. a few bakeries, a cafe, and a lingerie shop (he's definitely taking you there).

as he nears closer to the station, he passes a jewelry store, and sees a necklace in the window that catches his eye almost immediately. it's so you, he thinks. intrigued, he walks inside and an employee greets him with a 'welcome in'. he smiles politely before walking up to them.

"the necklace in the window..." he starts, then gestures for the employee to follow him, "can i see, uh, this one over here?" she nods, then pulls it from the case. almost immediately, she puts on her sale voice, and begins robotically listing all the details of the necklace: its composition, how much it costs, and where it was sourced from.

somewhere in there he zoned out, uninterested in the details. he wants it. "i'll take it," he interrupts her. the lady smiles, satisfied with her sales pitch probably, and ushers him to the counter. as he's swiping, she places the necklace into a little box, then packs it away into an unnecessarily large bag.

"for your wife?" the associate asks with a curious smile.

"for my girlfriend, actually. but one day she will be," he responds in earnest.

"well, i wish you two the best. i hope she loves it."

as he makes his way up to your shared apartment, he's expecting you to still be in bed, fast asleep with drool on your pillow. he's realized that one of the few things he's adopted over the years is waking up early. you like to tease him and say it's because he's getting older, but really, you're just not a morning person (despite his efforts to make you one).

when he opens the door, however, what he doesn't expect is for you to already be behind the door, just standing there like you were anticipating his arrival. he's barely just stepped inside before you're already padding over to him like a puppy, gearing up to wrap your arms around his sturdy frame.

with caution, he sets the flowers and bags down on the entryway table so that he can commit to a full embrace.

"welcome home, old man," you tease, head tilted up to meet his gaze, chin resting on his chest. you turn your cheek against him and inhale his scent. his jacket is damp with rainwater, you note, and he smells like smoke but there's still faint traces of the fresh linen detergent you washed it with yesterday. "you're wet."

he smiles softly, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly on the small of your back. "yeah, it rained a bit on the way back."

"you smell like cigarettes," you say, matter-of-factly. it's one of the few habits of his you've tried getting rid of. since you, he's smoked less than he used to, but every now and then he'll indulge.

"i know, i'll stop, baby."

it doesn't sound convincing, but you hum in response anyway, cheek still glued to his chest, just breathing him in. pulling back, you reach your arms up and slide the hood of his jacket down, revealing the messy bed hair that he didn't bother brushing this morning. your hands settle on the sides of his face, fingers gliding across skin where smooth meets stubble.

you've always believed him to be beautiful, but when he's up close like this, it stuns you how little he's aged despite how much he's been through. but you see his age in his smile, and in the crows feet that kiss his eyes, and in the greys on the side of his head scattered like stardust. he's so beautiful and it makes you inexplicably sick with adoration.

"happy anniversary," you whisper, just for him. just for you. fingers still caressing his face.

"happy anniversary, my love." the smile he gives you is warm, syrupy sweet, and so full of love that you can hardly stand it.

in your love-sick stupor, you pull him in for a kiss, encircling your arms around his neck to bring him down to your level. the arms that are wrapped around your middle find solace on the sides of your head, and you both find yourselves melting into each other, breaths heavy and sharp the longer you kiss without parting for air. you've been insatiable all day, and you've grown tired of waiting.

"missed you," you sigh into his mouth, still kissing, "so much."

yuuji smiles, a tease on the tip of his tongue. "you always miss me."

"don't be mean," you nip at his lip, pulling back slightly to see his face. he's looking down at you with a stupid grin, and you roll your eyes.

"only teasing, baby," he laughs, then dips his head down to the interstice of your neck. he kisses there once, twice, then works his way up to your ear, "how much did my sweet girl miss me?"

reaching up, you grab his hand and pull it down between the space where your bodies are melded. you guide him past your sleep shorts and panties, ushering his hand to where you ache for him most. the tips of his fingers are cool on contact, and the both of you shudder, though for different reasons.

slowly, you retract your hand, rest your forehead against his. "see?" a kiss, "told you," another.

"shit," he breathes, dropping his head to your shoulder, "you're unbelievable."

he slides one finger over your entrance as he says it, not pushing in, but keeping it settled there, letting his fingers coat with your slick. you giggle softly, tilting your head up to capture his lips in a kiss again, only this time it's deeper. messier. all staggered breaths, and heavy petting. spit-shined lips, and glossy eyes.

he withdraws his hands from your panties and picks you up, lays you down on the kitchen counter, and strips you down until your bottom half is bare before him. you take hold of his chin with a firm hand, guiding him to your face. your lips brush ever so softly, not connecting just yet, but hovering, intermingling breaths. he attempts to connect them but you retract your chin, smiling deviously before licking a stripe up his bottom lip and biting it.

"knees. get on your knees," you say, not asking, but demanding.

"not even a 'please'?" he queries, feigning offense. "you kids are so impatient these days, don't even use your manners anymore." there's amusement etched into his smirk, and he leans in for a quick kiss before making the descent down your body, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. when he's finally level with your core, he exhales a breath through his nose, and your stomach flexes instinctively.

his hands move to wrap around your thighs, and he abruptly pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, adjusting you so that your legs dangle over his shoulders. when he's got you in a preferable position, he darts his tongue out slowly. the first swipe over you isn't methodical. it's slow, and indulgent. he's tasting you, your morning, how long you've been in this state and waiting for him to come and fix it. the second swipe is an apology. it's zephyr-light kisses, and sweet nothings. the third swipe is purposeful, done with the intention of drawing a moan from your pretty little lips (and of course he's successful).

there's only two things in this world that he prides himself in: one being his ability to protect you, and two, being his ability to make you come with just his mouth and fingers. he knows your body like the back of his hand. knows all the spots that make you shiver and tremble, and knows exactly where to press, lick, and suck to make your eyes roll into the back of your skull. like when he uses his middle and ring finger to press up into that spongy spot against your mons, rubbing it back and forth in hurried motions while his mouth laps lazily around your clit.

he alternates between licking and sucking, pulling away every so often to drop goblets of spit, using his fingers to spread it around before pushing them back into you with brutal precision. the room is filled with the obscene schlik and schlop sounds of your wetness, accompanied by the occasional profanities that escape your lips, and his muffled mumblings.

"tastes so good, baby," he groans, eyes flitting up to yours, mouth and fingers still working you open, "so—fuck—wet for me." he dips back down, kisses every inch of skin around your folds that his tongue has touched, making sure that his eyes hold your gaze as he does so.

"this all for me, right?" a kiss, "tell me. wanna hear it?"

you nod rapidly, opting out of a verbal response because you know anything you say will come out warbled and incoherent. immediately, yuuji pulls away just enough to bite your inner thigh. not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to force a small squeal from you. an admonishment.

"y-yes," you all but cry, lifting your hips up in an attempt to get him to resume his ministrations, "all for you. only you." utterly pleased, he smiles cheekily before dipping back down to where you're dripping, reveling in the satisfaction of knowing that this is all for him. that your body is his, and his alone. because he's already decided long ago that you are the only thing in this world he's ever wanted for himself.

slowly, he pulls his fingers from your core, pushing them all the way to the hilt before you even get a chance to register their absence. he continues this motion intermittently until he settles on a rhythm, adding in a third finger when he decides he's worked you open enough. every poke and prod is merciless. the stretch of his fingers has you lifting your hips up off the counter from the pleasure building in the pit of your stomach—you're close. practically teetering on the precipice of your own undoing, and god, he's relentless.

his pace has graduated from steady and deliberate, to erratic and sloppy. all you can hear is your heavy panting, followed by a succession of various wet sounds from your pussy as his fingers continue their brutal assault inside your walls. he knows you're close, can tell by the way your eyes get all glossy, and the way you start fluttering around him like crazy.

briefly, he detaches his mouth from you, though his fingers keep their violent pace. "come on, sweet girl," his voice is zephyr-light, so soft it might as well have been a kiss, "i've got you. come for me."

his words are always the final blow to tip you right over the edge. your orgasm comes fast, and hard, rips through you like a current. violent and unforgiving. a guttural, debauched moan tears through your throat, and your back arches off of the counter, thighs tightening around his head. yuuji has yet to stop his ministrations on your cunt, his fingers continue to work you open, despite your attempts to pull his hand away.

"t-too much," you whine, trying to push him off. he simply swats you away, and when you try to clamp your thighs around him again, he uses his free hand to hold you down by the thigh. eventually, he settles on using his mouth instead and pushes both thighs to your chest, giving him better access to lick you from clit to taint.

it's so wet, so sloppy, and the sounds leaving his lips as he makes work of your poor pussy has you beyond light-headed. you think you'd be okay if you died right here, with his head between your thighs, and your slick smeared all over his pink, spit-shined lips. it drives you crazy. that and the way he's looking at you, eyes focused and half-lidded. with his hands roaming over the plains and pastures of your body, pawing and kneading at the fat of your breasts. caressing you like you're something of reverence. you could come alone from how much you adore him.

your second orgasm creeps up on you similarly to your first one. unceremonious and sharp. you lurch forward from the stimulation, clutching his head between your hands, keeping him still and close to your body. he gives you a final kiss on your clit before he pulls away, and you twitch instinctively from the action. for a few seconds, the both of you stay in this position, just breathing. letting your erratic heartbeats fill the silence of the room.

slowly, he rises from his haunches until he's towering over you, hands settled on either side of you supporting his weight. your eyes flit to his own, then to his lips—which are still shiny with your arousal—before you pull him into a searing kiss, and this one's desperate. almost animalistic in nature, spurred on from the taste of you on his tongue. you smile into the kiss, pulling back just barely to speak, forehead slick and pressed to his.

"move me to the couch," you whisper against his lips, "wanna feel you inside of me."

without protest, he wraps your legs around his waist and begins walking you back to the couch, and you giggle as he almost trips over the leg of a chair. carefully, he lays you down against the couch, and watches with hungry eyes as you make a show of removing your sleep shirt. now you're fully bare before him. suddenly, you find yourself annoyed with how little you're wearing, and how much he's still wearing. sitting back on your elbows, you playfully poke his clothed chest with your foot, tilting your head while sliding it down to his bulge.

you can feel the heat of him through his sweats. he's hard, painfully so, and it pulses with every rub of your foot against him. his breath hitches at the contact. you could probably rub him to completion just with your foot, you definitely could, but he stops your movements anyway. grabs your leg and kisses your ankle before setting it down.

"off," you say, head gesturing towards his shirt. he flashes a cheeky grin, pointing to it and saying "what, this?", like your patience isn't already running thin. like you're not vehemently desperate to have him in you. rolling your eyes, you nod again, acquiescing to his little charade. indulging you, he begins to pull the fabric over his head, revealing tanned, toned skin, inch by glorious inch.

the shirt drops haphazardly to the floor with a small thud, and you find your eyes immediately scanning his body. his chest and stomach are littered in milky-grey scars—save for the few new ones in the beginning stages of healing. underneath all of it, though, he's tan, and lean, and chiseled to perfection. iron-forged. the kind of tough exterior you'd expect from a man of his caliber. he's a god's wish come true—strong, and beautiful, and divine in his own right (despite his personal reservations). you're perpetually in awe of him.

"beautiful," it comes out as a whisper. you're not even aware you've said it until he starts going all red from the admission. and fuck, even the way his redness travels from his chest up to his cheeks is enough to send you to an early grave. amused, and overwhelmingly aware of the effect you have on him, you continue. your eyes stare into his, the sepia of his irises catching light in the dim of the room, and you force him to hold eye contact.

without verbalizing it, your eyes gesture to his lower half, then flicker back up to his face. in anticipation, you watch with bated breath, bringing a finger up between your teeth. equal parts pleasurably amused and turned on. as his hands begin tugging at his waistband, his eyes never leave yours. he makes quick work of pulling them down, along with his briefs, stepping out of the fabric and kicking them aside somewhere to be forgotten.

sitting up, you extend a hand to wrap around his shaft. he's leaking, hot and heavy in your palm, and so sensitive that he shivers from the contact. you shift closer, licking a long stripe up the underside of him before planting a soft kiss on his tip. when you pull back, he hastily situates himself between your thighs. pushes your thighs back to your head and strokes himself once, twice, then pushes the head of him into your cunt, until his pelvic bone is flush with your own. the initial intrusion burns, and you find your thighs locking around his waist to keep him from rocking.

in his own attempt to stay still, he drops his forehead to yours, and busies himself with kissing you. it's faint but he can taste himself on your lips, though, the taste of your own arousal overpowers his. you open your mouth wider, let his tongue explore every crevice, while yours moves in perfect tandem. when the sting subsides, you give an experimental roll of your hips against him, and he shudders, panting open-mouthed against your lips.

oh, is all you can manage to say, followed by his fuck. the next time it's him rolling his hips. slowly, he unsheathes himself from your cunt, all the way until only the tip of him remains, and then pushes all the way back in. each drag, each push, harder and more precise than the last. his head buries itself in the interstice of your neck, lips kissing and licking down the salty column of your throat, until they reach the tops of your plush breasts.

languidly, his tongue laps the skin around your nipple before latching onto it. he pulls the pert bud between his teeth, teasing and biting, while his free hand thumbs the other. all the while, his cock continues to thrust in and out of you at a slow pace. you throw your head back against the armrest of the couch, letting your mind slip further and further into a state of ecstasy. every pore on your body feels like it's being lit aflame, every sensation heightened. you can feel your body dissolving into the couch. the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment is the gentle thump of your head against the armrest.

"f-fuck," yuuji breathes, voice strained, "so good for me, always so good for me." your eyes screw tight, and you bring a hand to rest atop his head, letting your fingers sift through the pink locks. you try to focus on his breathing, the way his hips piston against yours, and the feeling of his hot mouth on your breasts. once again, you feel that familiar feeling you know all too well building up in the pit of your abdomen. it lulls you to the tides like a siren, calling and beckoning you, as your body nears closer and closer to becoming seafoam. stretched out and dispersed into something light.

"i'm gonna cum," you all but cry, arms wrapping around him tighter, nails digging into flesh. yuuji sits back on his haunches, maneuvers you to where you're sitting on his lap. in this position, you can feel the head of him just barely kissing your cervix. he gives you no time to adjust, and immediately begins moving you up and down on his length.

"then do it, baby," a kiss, "give me one more," another, "you can do it, know you can." one hand holds your back firmly while the other snakes itself between your sweaty bodies. he rubs your clit in fast circles, halting his thrusting to let you grind down against him. his deft fingers move in synchrony with his tongue, which lightly traces the pulse point in your neck that seems to jump with every flick over it. the knot twisting in your stomach nears closer and closer to snapping.

you wrap around him tighter, preparing yourself for another orgasm. yuuji issues the final blow with a hard thrust up, and you bury yourself into his neck, muffling the intensity of your moan with a bite.

"yuuji!" you squeal, walls fluttering around him. now that you've come, he won't be that far behind. feeling you tighten around his cock is usually enough to get him there. and right now he knows he's close. out of habit, he attempts to pull out of you, but you clamp down on him harder, locking your legs tighter around his waist so that he can't move.

"fuck, if you do that i won't be able to pull out," he whimpers, lips pulled between his teeth.

you pull your face from his neck and look him in the eyes, "don't," you say, panting. "do it inside, it's okay."

yuuji's brain short-circuits. the implication of it makes his dick twitch inside of you. he's not sure if you're serious, so he asks to make sure.

"you sure?" he asks, still thrusting up. "as in..."

"yes," you say, shaking your head so hard it might fall off. "i think we're ready. i want this."

and that's all he needs to hear before he's pumping into you with reckless abandon, mumbling desperate i love you's into your neck, and capturing your lips into a searing kiss. he kisses you like he can't believe you're giving him the honor of fatherhood, like he's worthy enough of becoming such a thing. you kiss him back as if to say of course you are, and you hope he understands it. you hope he can feel it in the way you clench around him, in the way you whisper sweet nothings in his ear when he finishes inside you, and in the way you kiss all over his face like he's something worth being gentle with.

because in this moment he's never felt more vulnerable.

when your chests still, and your breathing evens, he realizes what he's done. he scans your face in search of regret, thinking he'd be met with a worried brow, or a solemn frown because he got too carried away during the heat of it—but he sees nothing of the sort. instead, he's met with a soft smile and relaxed eyes.

"i wasn't just saying things in the heat of the moment," you reassure, putting your forehead to his. "i love you, and you deserve this — you are deserving of this," you correct.

you pull away to look at him. his eyes are welling with tears, and his lips are down-turned into a pout. his gaze drops from yours and you immediately force his chin back up so that he's looking at you.

"whatever self-deprecating thoughts you're thinking, forget it," you scold. a single, crystalline tear cascades down his cheek. you wipe it away with your thumb, kiss the skin right below his eye.

"kids were an afterthought before i met you. but now i find myself imagining what you would've looked like as a baby, and how i wish i could've protected you from everything you had to endure," you say, taking a breath, "and now i realize you're my favorite face, and i've fallen ridiculously in love with the idea of raising two or three little ones who look just like you."

yuuji nuzzles into the warmth of your hand, and he opens his mouth to speak. "two or three, huh?" he says, eyes still wet with tears but finding the space to joke. you roll your eyes, letting a giggle slip past your lips as you pinch his side.

"well, let's just see how well you do with one, old man," you tease, poking his chest. you inch your face closer to his until the tips of your noses are brushing. you pretend to go in for a kiss, parting your lips before pulling back with a sly smirk.

"deal?"

"deal."

hakari fucks you so good that you feel like he’s lit you on fire. kinji has always burned hot. the same wild instinct that built his gambling empire now pours into the way he manhandles you— hand in your hair, curls spilling over his tightened knuckles, guiding, molding, coaxing your body into a rhythm that feels dangerously perfect for the both of you. 

“mmm, this pussy’s so fuckin’ greedy, baby . . . suckin’ me in like that,” he growls, and the drawled rasp mixes with the damp skin-slapping that’s already permeated the atmosphere. your pussy, leaking and sloppy, clenches at the rawness of the sound. he only laughs and drives forward harder, punctuating his amped pace with a sharp slap to the globe of your ass, stinging the right side. two more rain down on the other cheek, and one falls harsh upon your creased hip. a fresh tinge of fleshy-red blooms over warm cocoa skin, and he brings his heavy palm to soothe it over, fix his own doing; kneading and rubbing the fat of your ass like he’s working in an oily balm.  

hakari shifts his balance, moving from stabilizing on both knees to brace himself on one meaty-thick thigh, the sole of his foot planting firmly behind you for leverage. one hand drags slowly down the curve of your back, so warm it almost feels like it burns in its wake. his palm presses down, insistent, urging your spine to arch deeper, to jut that perfect ass out for him. the adjusted angle changes everything— with renewed force, he thrusts back in hard, hitting the rightest spot with the new hitch in positioning. a shock of pleasure jolts straight through you. 

“k—kinjiii! f-fuck, daddyyy,” your ass ripples beautifully, slamming back on him with reckless abandon, pussy streaking juices all over the firm plane of his defined hips. his pelvis, dusted with coarse dark hair, glistens with the slick evidence of how thoroughly he’s worked you over. the mess only seems to spur him on. large, calloused hands close around the small of your waist, firm and unyielding, dragging you back and forth over his cock.

“fuck! y’r tight as shit, baby . . you’re close, aren't ya?” you nod helplessly, blubbering into the sheets, only now noticing the thin line of drool that’s slipped from the corner of your mouth to pool beneath your cheek. hakari dips lower, delivering slow, deliberate strokes that have your voice breaking on his name. 

“c’mon mama, let go fa’me,” he croons, hips pistoning in and out of you with the steadiest, most wrecking pace. he pairs it with thick fingers curling around your throat, gentle but firm. a pressured squeeze to your carotid artery has your sopping cunt fluttering rapidly around the girthy stretch of him. you wheeze softly at the intentional force of it, fractured little ‘ papa, papa’s spilling from your lips.

“yes, yes, yessss . . k-kinji, make me cum, please— oh!” he inches low to deliver thorough swipes to your clit. a wide grin spreads across his face— all teeth and unrestrained satisfaction— when you finally shatter beneath him, your body spasming as white-hot pleasure crashes through you, spotting your vision and leaving you limp.

he doesn’t slow, hips steadily rocking against your ass as he works you through it. the way you fall apart around his pulsing dick finally snaps the last thread of restraint he had left, and with a low groan he pulls you tighter against him, grinding sloppily against you while burying his face into your shoulder.

“lemme feel you nut all over this fuckin’ dick— yeahhh, cum with me. so good, mama,” he revels in you unraveling beneath him, just as he’s sent tipping over the edge himself. a rough groan tears from the depths of his throat as he clutches your hips and rides out his own release. you feel it; kinji spurting thick loads of sperm to coat your quivering walls. you weakly hum at the warmth of it.

the room settles into quiet, the last tremors fading as the two of you finally catch your breath. hakari’s arm stays loosely draped around your waist, warm and heavy, like he has no plans of moving anytime soon. he lets out a satisfied huff against your shoulder.

“damn . . . guess i’m on a winning streak tonight.”

All the good stuff from Le Marche gets sold out here at Ebisu Pawn. You lay your eyes upon a necklace; European style, with diamonds encrusted and plated into the priceless silver. It’s designer. It may not be the most necessary purchase, but you’ve yearned for the damn thing for months. You could treat yourself just this once, since Christmas is just around the corner. 

You reach out to it, manicured nails rhythmically tapping along the glass case. Before you can call out to the store clerk in hopes of buying the expensive piece, another hand lays flat upon the jewelry’s transparent casing. They splay their palm across it as though they already own it.

The imposing hand doubles yours in size— rough, callous and ready to grab at the very thing you wanted for yourself. Your eyes trail up to the person beside you, and God, is he big. He’s tall, broad, and strangely handsome in his own intimidating way. The snarl-like expression etched upon his face looks permanent. 

“I’ll take it.” he rumbles out to the cashier. deep words spill past his scarred lips; it almost pulls a shiver out of you. you’d find him incredibly alluring if he wasn’t about to buy the necklace of your dreams.

You build up the courage to speak out for it. You want it. You need it. You’ll go against this intriguing stranger if you have to. 

“You’ll have to find something else.” you manage out, arms crossed over the fur-lining of your cinched coat. He finally turns your way, as if he hadn’t even bothered to register your presence before now. “Oh?” He tilts his head left in disbelief. “Will you, now?” He asks. It’s less of a question, more of a threat. A thick Kansai accent is laced within his low voice. 

“Yeah, I will. I was here first.”

“Oh, princess,” he releases a mean, incredulous snicker. Your face scrunches up over the title, and it almost feels like he lives for your look of irritation. “That doesn’t fuckin’ matter.” he dips a hand into the deep pocket of his tan colored coat, slipping out a thick band of cash and propping it on the case. The colorful stack of yen taunts you. “See that? S’mine now.”

He watches intently, as he always does; on how your facade glitches for the briefest moment, the anxious lift of your brow at the realization that he’s actually capable of taking it away from you. 

One thing about Ryuji is that he’s a real fucking jerk. 

But sometimes, on rare occasions, maybe holidays, he's not that mean. he can tell that, for whatever fucking reason, you really want it. he begins to assume it holds some sort of sentimental value to you; might’ve been a sold family heirloom or some shit, he thinks. And despite being the big mighty scumbag he is, who is he to deny a girl's desire? Fuck, maybe the holiday spirit has washed over him. 

In all truth, the blonde hadn’t been planning on wearing it. The make of the piece is obviously feminine. He just wanted something eye-catching to add to his collection of fine jewelry. He pries the case open, holds it in careful hands, and drapes it over your neck. The necklace simply dazzles against your warm skin. In that moment, he decides it looks much better on you than it would in a glass container.

“Oh, you pretty thing,”  his lips curl upwards into a ghastly smirk. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was trying to sex you up. The last thing you want to admit is that it’s working.

“I’ll pay.” He nods at the clerk. you look to him with wide eyes. “what? no, you— you don’t have to do that-”

“I already have.” it’s paid in full for all it’s worth, over 700k yen, neatly packaged, and placed in your hands. you look down at your new ‘gift’ with settling shock. how could some asshole with a nasty attitude end up being your secret santa? when you look back up, he only smiles; all smarmy and arrogant with torn skin cutting over it. 

“Show some gratitude, yeah?” He flashes an egotistical smile. You huff. “I never asked you to—”

“Think of it as a gift from me to you. Merry Christmas.” And with that, he’s off. The door faintly jingles as he makes his leave. You’re left walking home frazzled, chilled by the light drop of snow, pondering your interaction with . . . mister 'scarface'.

The way he was able to blow all that fucking money and act like it was nothing? And if it did leave a dent in his wallet, his demeanor would’ve left you none the wiser. It isn’t far off to assume that he’s a yakuza; that’s got to be the only explanation. Was there a pin on his collar? What did it say? You can’t bring yourself to remember. Something tells you that this interaction wasn't a one-off. Or maybe, for some unbelievable reason, you hope to see him again.

—

The next time you cross paths with 'scarface' is at Cabaret Grand. You never caught his name, but you know it’s him— in all his exuberance, he’s rather hard to miss. Man of the hour, he is; making a scene and buying up all the pricey wine. Girls flock him on either side, and his goons sit opposite of him. Ruckus and antics emit from their booth.

You came for a good time, to take the load off after a busy week. Your new necklace and skimpy little dress sparkles under the vibrant flash of disco lights, and the shimmery gold just so happens to match the color of his expensive, tailored suit. It’s mid sip that his eyes lock with yours; while he’s nursing his cup of whiskey and your hips sway to the beat of an eighties city-pop song. Like a moth drawn to flame, the golden fabric that swathes your body is exactly what catches his attention. You, solely, purely you— pawn girl. Or at least, that’s where he met you. 

He discards all that occupied him before to make his way to you; brushing off all the busty women that’d been rubbing all over him, and ignoring the drunk wailing of his flushed subordinates. His eyes are sharp like a tiger’s, zoned in on you from halfway across the club until the space grows slimmer. You’re unsure whether to break eye contact or saunter away, but he reaches you far before you manage to decide. 

“If it ain’t you, sweetheart.” His arm circles your waist. Surprisingly, you don’t hate it. You wish you could blame it on being tipsy. “That piece fits you nicely,”  His eyes flit to your collarbone, then give your tits a shameless glance. You feel your body run hot under his gaze. 

“Makes me feel good that I let you have it.”

“You give yourself too much credit.” is your scoffed reply. He finds your eye-roll to be cute rather than menacing. 

“I paid for it, didn’t I?” you almost want to laugh in his face, but the way his warm palm presses against the dip in your back soothes you.

“You insisted on it. I could’ve bought it for myself.” 

“Hm. Right,” He only partially listens to you. Most of his attention is fixed on your body— so terribly, terribly shameless of him. He hungrily eyes the curvature of your hips and your supple cleavage. You practically shiver at the way he stares you down.

You cross your arms, glaring at him. He enjoys the way it makes your boobs press up over the dress’s neckline. 

“You think every woman wants you?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. Then his mouth tilts into that stupid fucking smug half-smile again. “But you do.”

You laugh aloud, and he watches with intrigue. “Keep dreaming, blondie." 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs low, for your ears only, “I like a challenge.” Ryuji takes another slow sip, watching how you watch him. He knows you want it. He likes when ladies play hard to get; they rarely ever do with him anymore. It’s too easy to take, but he wants to earn it. He knows that you’ll make him. Hell, he’s growing a hard-on already; all from the cold way you look at him. He wants to fuck that snobbish attitude right out of you. 

“Wanna get away?” he offers. There’s a glint in his deep brown eyes, like he knows you won’t refuse. “I could book us the best room in all of Sotenbori. You’ve never seen the likes of it,” he grins.

He’s appealing to you, in his own strange little way. The man’s ruggedly handsome, ambitious and clearly rich. You could use a bit of fun tonight, anyhow. And so, you relent. But not before asking: 

“What’s your name, anyway?” 

You see the way his mouth flits up comically, like he’s biting back a raucous chuckle. “You seriously don’t know?” Is his incredulous scoff. Most people know of him whether they want to or not. You probably aren’t from the area, he thinks. 

“Please enlighten me, hotshot.” 

“Oh-ho, you’re spunky,” his shoulders shake with the bass of his laughter, and you find yourself fighting a smile. 

“Goda Ryuji,” he leans in as he reveals himself to you, dipping low to speak into the shell of your ear. “Go-Ryu’s patriarch.” You knew it. But for whatever reason, him being affiliated in such a dubious lifestyle doesn’t scare you off. You know it’s supposed to, but now you’re intrigued all the more. 

His arm curls around your waist tighter than before, spreading warmth throughout your spine, with his chest flush to yours. You can feel the cool touch of his golden chain necklace graze your boobs. With the angle, you’ve got to hold onto his broad shoulders for balance. Your manicured nails dig into the threading of his pinstriped suit as he murmurs, all low and inviting, “but you could get to know me a lot better than that.”

He’s barely touched you— hasn’t even kissed you yet and you’re already running hot. You wonder what else he could give you, how warm he could make you feel . . . so with that, you decide, “Show me a good time, Goda.” 

He grins smugly over the way he has you subconsciously gnawing at your plush bottom lip. Ryuji wants to taste them. You wonder why you find yourself caving; probably because he’s being straightforward and that's always turned you on. “Ryuji.” He corrects. “Fine, Ryuji.” You sigh, “Take me out.”

And with that, he’s calling for his chauffeur to whisk you both away. The pair of you slither past the dancing crowd of heated bodies and step back out into the real world; where the red light district is bright and alive, where indistinct noise and cigarette smoke alike floats up into the atmosphere, where the december air is nice and cool. 

Before long, a sleek ride pulls up to the curb, a Toyota Century Royal limousine with enough space for Ryuji to spread you open in the backseat. He surprises you for a second, with how he helps you step inside with a protective hand to your back. What a gentleman.

But the very second those doors slam shut, the wheels start rolling and the partition is closed, Ryuji allows the lust to take over. He touches you all over during the whole ride; slides his hand between your thighs, grabbing and slapping skin, palms rubbing heavy over your tits. You gasp at every ministration, unable to care whether or not the driver overhears. You're grabbing at his broad shoulders and working your way onto his lap with wetness gathering over your thong. He lets you ride his thigh, guiding the rock of your hips with his large hands.

“Mm, that’s it,” he smirks up at you, blonde hair becoming mussed and falling out of place. Stray pieces land on his forehead, and you look down at him with needy eyes with your lips fallen agape. “Wannit so fuckin’ bad, dontcha? Hmm?” You kiss along the scar on his upper lip. His bleached brows raise before he takes the invitation to drive his tongue into your awaiting mouth. 

“Ah, R—Ryuji,” you whine as he sucks on your tongue, then nips at your jaw, the flesh of your neck, licks a stripe along your collarbone. He only grins, thick fingers dragging down your middle until they disappear beneath your dress. He teases and prods, pinching at your bundle of nerves before rubbing soothing circles over skimpy lace. He'll tear those right the fuck off later. He revels in your noises, how you squirm in his lap, rock against his fingers, grind down hard against the outline of his cock stirring in his trousers. 

He’s grabbing at your ass like dough when you finally reach the destination. It’s some multi-story building, like that of a penthouse. He was right; it's much nicer than what you’re used to. He doesn’t even pull your dress back down, just unlatches the door with haste and walks out with your legs tangled around his waist, his big hands cupping your ass to keep you upright. Your heel dangles off and he catches it, kissing you hard and swallowing your moans the whole way up the elevator until you reach the thirtieth floor. 

The door’s flung open by the courtesy of his snakeskin shoes kicking it down. The very second it shuts, Ryuji rips you free from your dress, leaving the gold material stranded somewhere forgotten in the lofty space. You’re quick to pull him free of his clothes, and he cackles about how you’re so eager, possibly even more than him. 

Ryuji’s six-feet-and-five-inches of pure bulk and muscle; that becomes much more apparent once he’s naked before you. Broad frame, strong corded arms, ripples in his toned stomach, thick firm pecs, vibrant ink crawling up his back, and the heavy bob of his cock— veined and hard and weeping for you. The hair at the base of him is fine and dark, a contrast to the characteristic blonde slick-back. He observes how hard you stare, drinking him in as you gape at his size, with his hands toying with your body all the while, cupping your wet pussy in his wide palm. 

Then, when you’re finished drooling over him, he spins you around, smacks your ass, and fucks you against the cool glasswall. 

The jewelry he bought you dangles from your neck as he pounds into you from behind, grunting against your ear with such a deep rasp that it makes your pussy clench. He can only drive into you harder when you squeeze his dick like that. 

You feel him in every aspect; mouthing on your neck, cock deep in your womb, hand snaking around your throat. You love how his imposing body swallows you whole.

“Fuckin’ take it. Yeahhh, jus’ like that.” He groans, hips throttling forward to feed you more strokes. The way your legs shake makes his ego surge. “Such a good little slut ‘fa me, fuck. I love this tight little pussy.” 

“Ryu—ji!” His grip tightens slightly around your throat when you gasp his name. “Yeah,” he murmurs against your ear, voice rough with satisfaction. “That’s it. Say it again— holy shit, you're so fuckin' wet, doll."

Your fingers slide against smooth glass as his weight presses you deeper against it. Being beneath him feels like being pinned by a fucking storm. The pace of his thrusts are overwhelming, and the way he’s picking you apart is dangerous; yet somehow it’s exactly where you want to be.

“You were talkin’ real big earlier,” he teases lowly. “Remember that?”

You try to shoot him a glare, breath shaky and uneven. You can barley see past your mussed strands of hair that have fallen out of the style and into your face. “You’re still— mmph, annoyin—”

The words dissolve into a sharp inhale when he slams deep into you. His balls collide against the round of your jiggling ass with every plunge he makes, and the words die in your throat. A string of moans come alive instead, echoing into the night. With the skyline below, you can't help but wonder if all of Sotenbori can see you getting fucked like this.

Ryuji laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “That mouth of yours . . .” he mutters, brushing his nose against your jaw. He delivers a punishing thrust, bringing his other hand up to squeeze at your breasts, gripping them in his hands while he rolls his firm hips into your backside. “All attitude. No fuckin’ bite.” 

Your legs wobble instinctively, and he notices immediately. Ryuji turns you over, scoops you up, and lies your back onto the large sofa, situating his burly frame between your thighs and pressing his cock head back against your gaping pussy. You both moan when he puts it in, eyes locking with your mouths dropped open. He’s never been enveloped by anything warmer. 

“Thought so,” he says, smug. He leans low, shifting his weight onto you, keeping you pressed there. You heave for air, eyes rolling back when he shifts his hips and fucks deeper into you. He's got your legs propped up on either side with his calloused hands, and you find purchase on his shoulders, nails digging crescents into tan, tattooed skin. 

“Act all disgusted, but look at you now,” he grunts, fucking into you zeal, “Takin’ this big dick so fuckin’ good. Lettin’ me pound this ‘lil pussy so rough,” he delivers a slap to your puffed clit, and he revels in the way you shake. 

You shove weakly at his chest. “S—shut upppp,” you moan, unable to contain your scream when he begins to quicken the pace of his thrusts while pairing that with hasty rubs to your clit.  “Make me.” Ryuji groans against your mouth, clearly pleased with knowing you can’t. If anything, he’s rendered you speechless, driving hard into your walls as you spasm around him, suck him in, grip his cock so nicely. He’s not sure if he can let you go after this. 

With the ridiculous speed he’s taking, the both of you were never meant to last long. A couple more sweaty minutes of him swiping your clit, angling his hips, and delivering the most devastating strokes, you’ve got your throw your head back on the couch as he pries out your orgasm, shuddering in his arms and screaming out his name. “Ryuji, Ryujii, Ryujiiii!” 

The sound of you is enough to make him cum hard; thighs tensing, teeth grit, balls tight, quickly slipping out to pump fast at the base of his pulsing dick. You’ve got the Dragon of Kansai himself losing his mind and cumming all over you. Ryuji moans, painting your skin a pretty, pearly white. His semen is warm on your thighs, just as his hands are. 

He chuckles out into the sex-dampened air, giving the silence no time to settle. You gather the last semblance of your remaining energy to scoff at him, as if he isn’t the best you’ve ever fucking had. No need to admit, he knows it. Ryuji goads with a rugged smirk, scar lifting when his lips do.

“I knew you couldn’t resist.”

your fingers pad across your phone, feeling like a mastermind using this as an excuse to see him. it’s not even an excuse! your car is broken. you eye the smoke steaming. you press send.

a few texts bounce back and forth between you both. you even roll your eyes over his texts but that doesn’t mean a grin doesn’t sneak up on your cheeks at the same time. it feels like your crush is blooming inside you, your heart flipping in your chest at the sight of a virtual baby. you close your eyes, when the hell is he going to ask you on a date, some proper alone time?

the deep smooth rumble tells you all you need to know. you fight the urge to do a little squeal and jump, swoon at the sight of his black porsche coming into view as you lean against your red car. you wipe your palms against your shorts, why the hell are you sweaty over seeing him again? the sun blasts down on you, prickling your skin with heat and you’re grateful for your outfit choice today. tank top and jean shorts, though you wish you brought your sunglasses. nerves shake through your veins just knowing he’s about to appear and you check your appearance in the wing mirror.

then the car slides to a stop, the emblem logo glistening at you, almost laughing at your busted little car. the explosive hero hops out, long thick legs in black basketball shorts, a white compression top and these nerdy rectangular framed glasses. it’s the glasses that make you bite down on your lip as he slams the driver’s door shut and rakes his hand through his hair. he looks as if he’s in a cologne advert or a car one, scanning the scene before landing on you. the left corner of his lips quirk up and he’s laughing. a quick breezy one that only makes you more enamoured by him.

you’re becoming a soppy mess.

“why did i even call you?”

he circles around his vehicle to get to you and the way he stares at you… you feel gorgeous. a cocky grin, eyes flicking to the top to bottom of you. it’s obvious, he likes what he sees. 

“you’re supposed to say hello my sex god baby daddy,”

two hands grip your waist tightly, pressing you up against your car and looking down at you. he’s overwhelming, the smell of his caramel sweat on this hot day, his larger body looming over you. he’s got stubble brushed across his face again and it’s true, he does look like pure sex. 

“nobody says sex god.”

bakugou pecks you like he couldn’t help it, your glossed lips over his moisturised ones. your arms link around his neck, then another peck. he smells good, a strong expensive musky cologne that makes you want to wrap your leg around his waist.

“yeah because they haven’t met me yet.” 

bakugou acts like he hasn’t seen you in months, kissing down your neck and you don’t fight him off, simply stretching so he’s got more space. he focuses on the junction between your neck and shoulder, you swear you hear him inhale.

“you smell so fuckin’ good.”

a giggle bubbles from your lips, “i like your glasses. they’re sexy.”

katsuki pauses the kisses on your neck, then stands up straight. his head blocks the sun from beaming down on you but it casts a blonde halo through the tips of his hair. of course he has to look angelic, with his plush lips and… is he insecure? 

bakugou reaches for his glasses, like he’s checking they’re actually there, “fuck. forgot i left them on. was readin’ contracts in the office.”

you don’t respond how he expects, it barely looks like you’re even registering what he’s saying. your hand flies up to his wrist, “keep them on. you look like clark kent, nerdy and sexy.”

living in a country full of superheroes, being one himself, you had to compare him to a fictional one. bakugou scoffs, “don’t compare me to an alien, i’m so much stronger. could kill him with a—,”

you couldn’t care less, pressing your lips to his again and bakugou easily takes control. hips pressing you into your car door so you can feel him hardening against your stomach. he even cocks your leg up so he’s in position to grind into you, a large hand sneaking up your vest.

that’s when you’ve got to stop, pushing him off you abruptly and bakugou is the embodiment of aroused, you’re sure you look it too. “we aren’t having sex on the side of the road.”

bakugou chuckles, loud and boyish. you feel his eyes linger on the hem of your vest, slightly shuffled up to reveal your waist and navel. it would be so easy to unpop the button to your little denim shorts.

“we aren’t?” 

bakugou isn’t like this usually. he’s never all over women, desperate to touch them as soon as he’s laid eyes on them. he prefers to be private, in a hotel or his bedroom and never mention it again. he never feels pinches of excitement when he gets texts or so eager to abandon his work just to see one. he’s definitely never been so attracted to someone he’s willing to tease them outdoors on the side of a road but you’re looking at him the same way he is looking at you, like you want him desperately. there’s a layer of sweat on your forehead from the heat, your eyes are half lidded and shiny, he wants to shove you in your car, his car, see your eyes roll back and moan.

“no! you need to look at my car, katsuki.”

bakugou rolls his eyes, he has people to look at his car, he doesn’t really know too much about them aside from the basics. but if a pretty woman asks for assistance he’s not saying no.

he rounds to the front of your car, “is kenj at nursery?”

“yup. he was having a tantrum this morning about wanting to wear his orange crocs till he remembered they were at yours.”

you stand with your arms crossed as bakugou opens your car bonnet, wafting his hands to rid the smoke.

“i did ask him if he wanted to bring them to yours and he said no. i’ll just stuff them in his bag next time.”

you hum in agreement, transfixed by your baby father’s nose scrunched as he stares at your engine. he pushes his glasses up his nose bridge with his knuckle, then looks over at you and grins, “you look gorgeous. didn’t say that before.”

“you didn’t have to say it, you were all over me.” you scoff, though you soften under his gaze, “thanks. what’s the car saying?”

“your exhaust is busted again. and there’s a leak back here.” then he stands, giving you a once over, “i think your shitbox is dead though i can try sort the leak. i have a tool box in my car.”

you smile at him, gold necklace glittering around your neck and bakugou feels a breath halt in his throat. he wasn’t lying, you are gorgeous, beautiful, you texted him for help. “thank you! i’ll call car repairs for them to pick her up. i think she’s still worth saving.”

bakugou rolls his eyes adoringly, walking over to his car boot. “wishful thinkin’, sweetheart.”

staring at your baby daddy tinkering with something in your car, has to be covered under soft core porn. he wipes the sweat off his forehead, slaps your ass when you walk by. he keeps having to adjust his glasses from leaning down and now he has a streak of dirt across his cheek. you’re useless at this moment, arms behind your back, pretending to be helpful and looking in the engine but you honestly can’t tell who from what. 

“do you want some water? i’ve got a spare bottle inside?”

bakugou hums, “if you don’t mind, baby.”

you open your car door to grab it, throwing it over to him and he catches with ease. he drinks like he hasn’t for days, his adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow and he’s got the nerve to look at you as he does it. it’s like a competition with himself, how fast he finishes it, scrunching the plastic in a single hand. it’s the scars along his arm that really catch your eye, the pink skin tissue wrapped around him like ribbon. it’s so pretty, a reminder of his strength of who he is.

“you’re so dramatic,” you whisper, though it doesn’t come out with as much sass as you intended. bakugou wipes across his mouth with the back of his hand.

his smirk is wicked, “only ‘cause you’re watchin’ me.”

you tap your foot waiting for him to finish with your car, scrolling through your phone, eyeing his chunky bicep in the thin white fabric. you feel electric when he huffs in completion, “‘m done. the leaks stopped though best you call them now to come get it. i’ll drop you to wherever you were going, then i gotta go back to work.”

you pout childishly at that, silly to assume he can drop his whole day for you. you step over to him, hand flat on his chest, “thanks for helping me out.” you flicker your eyes up at him, “i really appreciate it.” 

“yeah?” obsessed doesn’t cut it for bakugou. a grubby hand lands on your hip and he’s feels nervous when you eye him like this. your calculated touches and lingers to get him to do what you want, and fuck, he’s going to do it. 

you nod softly, sliding your hand down his chest and brushing your fingers against his crotch. “i’ll just call them, only be a minute.”

bakugou doesn’t move away whilst you’re on the phone. he leans against your car, pulling you between his legs by your jean belt loops and follows your lips with every word you make. he wants you to be his girlfriend, he wants to be your first call. you laugh over the phone, “yeah, i had someone help with the….” 

you look at him for the answer.

“exhaust box,” bakugou says, hand trailing down to rest on your ass. he doesn’t like being called someone, there’s so much more between you two. at least your baby daddy. he curses under his breath.

you’re even able to woo people with your voice, that fucker on the other end keeping you on the call for longer than needed. bakugou pulls you in closer so you focus on him again. you tilt your head in silent questioning but he doesn’t let anything go, frowning slightly as he starts to kiss along your jaw, palm on your bare waist.

your breath hitches immediately, leaning all your body weight onto him.

“okay, okay, i’ll see you soon. thanks… yep thanks!” you’re quick to hang up, stuffing your phone in your back pocket.

“get inside the car,” you order, managing to make your voice sound somewhat authoritative as bakugou untangles from you. 

“yes, baby,” he grins, climbing into the backseat of your little car. you climb in after, grabbing his head to slam his lips onto yours as soon as your knee presses into the seat cushion. bakugou mumbles against you, “there’s more space in my car.”

you notice how his arm is pressed against kenji’s car seat, his knee is jabbing the back of the drivers seat and if he’s not careful, his head will knock on the ceiling. still, you pout, “you’ve got a car seat too!”

“yeah and there’s still more space, baby.” 

your car is smaller, but you like it, such close quarters with this massive man. he looks even bigger than usual, overgrown limbs and muscled chest. he can barely stretch his arms out, not needing to bend his elbows to touch both sides. you pick up kenji’s seat and you place it in the front passenger seat. 

“there. more space,” you mumble, not giving him time to reply because you’ve got your leg across his lap and bakugou adjusts easily, pushing you back down on the seat to rest his forearms by your head.

he’s never seen you like this, had you like this. usually, it’s him coming onto you, him flirting his way to get a pretty smile from you or looking up your skirt just so you think about him. last time you spoke in the coffee shop, you were still nervous about dating but now you’ve horny and smothering him, bakugou can barely keep track. it makes him harden under his shorts as you climb him like a gym, hands running down his arms, fingers through his hair, a little tug. bakugou wants to take his glasses off so it’s easier to kiss you but you said you liked them, so he’s willing to struggle for the moment.

“i’m too fuckin’ big for this shit,” he mumbles, but you’re looking at him eager and excited and he’s not about to deny you now. until he unbuttons your jeans and you deny him.

“wait. you’re not touching me with your grubby hands,” as much as you’d love him too, the black grime and grease from your engine is seriously putting you off.

“fuck,” bakugou grunts, looking at his palms and grimacing at the dirt all over. why is there always something between you both? you grab him by the collar of his top for another kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips and you’re moaning into his mouth. bakugou doesn’t realise you’re slowly pushing him up until he’s up against the seat, hands taped to your waist.

“actually,” and bakugou listens. hanging onto every word you say. “i wanted to do this last time… before you were annoying.”

bakugou’s cheeks flush red, a mixture of his embarrassment and you, you, getting on your knees and slotting yourself between his legs. you’re smiling, a happy little one as your hands run down his tanned thighs in his basketball shorts. it should be him on his knees for you, with your thighs muffling his ears and you on his tongue. 

“you’re gonna be the death of me, y’know?” bakugou grumbles and if you didn’t know him you’d think he was irritated. maybe he is a little because he’d do anything for you if you asked and once you figure that out it’s game over. “you don’t have to do that.”

“but i want to. i really want to see you come.”

bakugou releases a low fuck as you shuffle down his shorts, just enough to pull out his cock. it’s the look on your face that gets him. you’re excited with your flared eyes, almost too excited as you bite the inside of your cheek. 

to you, this is the first time you’ve ever seen bakugou like this. the first time you had sex, it was rushed, the room was dark and you touched him but didn’t actually see him. now, outdoors and midday you can see everything. the slight lean to the right, his reddened mushroom head and thick veins trailing from bottom to top like a tree branch. bakugou was thick, hefty. exactly like you thought he’d be.

“stop fuckin’ lookin’ like that,” he grunts and he’s about to touch himself, just a stroke but you slap his hand away.

you can see him twitch from that, a few droplets of pre beading out.

“like what?” you grip the base of his cock and the man rumbles, a deep inhale that has him leaning into your grip.

“so fuckin’ excited,” he’s staring at you through half lidded eyes, a palm stroking your cheek softly. he needs to play his cards right with you. he needs to get you right.

you roll your eyes, sitting up on your knees to neatly spit on his head. “what the fuck, baby?” he practically studies your pursed lips, the glob of spit the lands on him and he thinks he could come just from how satisfied you look. lightly wiping your mouth and using your spit to stroke him. your wrist flicks up and gown, creating a smooth rhythm that rings through his body.

“you should be nice to me, ‘ki.”

“you’re throwin’ out all the big guns callin’ me that.”

you squeeze him in your curled hands, just to see him jolt, growl at you. “‘ki? d’you like ‘ki?”

he chuckles like he’s in pain, resting his forearm on his forehead. the sight makes you shuffle on your knees, a dull throb ringing in your clit. “i’d love anythin’ you call me. fuck, just like that, baby.”

you bite down on your lip. you and praise go hand in hand. everything in you lights up, keeping your grip the same pressure, just how he likes.

“i’m doing good, ‘ki?”

“perfect, baby. w-wasn’t expectin’ this today.”

neither were you. when you think he’s as thick as he’s going to get, you open your mouth, flatten your tongue and go down on your baby father. the saltiness from the pre makes you moan and that only causes katsuki to make a jumble of sounds, all positive. bakugou softly caresses your jaw and your lower half heats like a furnace, all ablaze and begging to be touched.

“you’re so pretty like this. all for me, fuck,” 

the compliment only makes you want to impress him more, keeping your fist around him while you focus on his head. licking over his tip and sucking. bakugou looks as if he’s reached his limit, reaching for your hand on his thigh and intertwining his fingers with yours. you’re not surprised he likes holding hands during head.

“if you keep doin’ that, i’m gonna come, baby. you’re doin’ so good, wanna fuckin’ keep you,” he wants to say all types of shit, spill his biggest secrets when you have him like this. ask you to be his girlfriend, ask to move in with him, ask—

you watch how his biceps tense, his abs and pectorals prominent through his thin shirt. his thighs are hard, all pent up energy as his hand drifts to the back of your neck and back to under your jaw.

“c’mon pretty girl, fuck, you’re so—,”

bakugou squeezes your hand tightly before he comes down your throat. he grits his teeth as he does, a rough beastly grunt like its all too overwhelming, staring down at you staring up at him. you take it all, the corner of your eyes watering from lack of air. 

it’s the power that turns you on, the ability to turn one of the strongest men in the world to an exhausted lump in your car. you’re not surprised to see he’s still hard after, pulling you from the ground to sit beside him and slamming his lips to yours.

he can taste himself on your tongue but he’s too carried away to think about anything but you. he pushes you against the car door, slotting between your open legs as you hold his head so he’s unable to leave. you both are a sweaty mess, windows blurred with condensation but the only thing you can think about doing right now is fucking him. feeling him slide into you and filling you up.

until there’s a knock on your window, one that causes you to scream into bakugou’s mouth and bakugou pulls off you with a, “hah?”

your chest is heaving, breasts in bakugou’s face with every breath. “oh shit, i forgot the car guys are coming.” you wipe at your eyes, blinking your raging hormones away, “d’you think they saw me—”

bakugou shakes his head, kissing your forehead and tucking himself away in his underwear. there’s no chance they saw him with his dick out, he was practically stuck to you.

“nah baby, i woulda heard if they pulled up earlier and the windows were fogged” 

he adjusts his glasses on his nose, pulls up your vest where a breast was about to fall out. “d’you want me to talk to them?”

you give him a shy nod, “give me two seconds.”

you fix your hair when bakugou slides out and you  listen to their conversation outside. you laugh behind your palm, you’ve never done anything in a car before besides kissing. definitely not during the day with the chance of being caught. fuck, you hope he didn’t see anything.

when you finally hop out, bakugou’s standing with his arms crossed watching the mechanic look at your engine. he relaxes at the sight of you, bumping you slightly with his side when you stand beside him.

“he didn’t see anything, did he?”

bakugou shakes his head, “nah. he apologised for takin’ so long when we couldn’t turn the air con on in this heat.”

he slings an arm around your shoulder, looking ahead, “i know you’ve been wonderin’ why i haven’t asked you on a date yet.”

you glare up at him, “you think?”

bakugou grins pulling out an envelope from his shorts pocket, “it’s a bit creased from us fuckin’ around but—,”

bakugou’s ugly chicken scrawl is on the front, your name in a black ballpoint pen. “what is it?” you ask, snatching it from his hand.

“so i know it’s not gonna exactly be alone time b-but i thought you’d enjoy it. i was waitin’ for the invitations to come out to ask you to be my plus one.”

you rip open the envelope, surprised to see a red and gold themed invitation. your name in gold cursive, hero gala, this weekend, charity, formal.

you gasp, fighting the urge to jump in your spot, “i’m your plus one to a hero gala? this is like those princess ball events!”

bakugou feels like a weight has lifted off his shoulders, thank fuck he asked you. “i usually hate these events, always try and get outta them but i know you like dressin’ up and it’s for a good cause.”

then you read the invite again, slower this time to find the words, charity for disadvantaged children. “is this because of the day i cried? about work?”

bakugou nods, trying to read your expression, “yeah, thought you’d actually be interested in talkin’ to the people there and people are gonna wanna talk to you, seein’ as you do just as much as us heroes do.”

“you’re crazy, bakugou katsuki,” you grin, jabbing his chest. 

of course, he’d do something like this for your first date. have it be luxurious and meaningful, something you would have done without all the glitz and the glamour.

“so are you comin’? is that okay?” he’s squeezing you to him with your neck in the crook of his elbow, looking down at you to finally gather your thoughts. “our next date will be just us, promise.”

you’re nodding before he finishes his sentence, “yeah, yes. this is really cool, i’m looking forward to it.”

bakugou grins, kissing you cheek, “good.” then he eyes the mechanic surrounded by multiple tool boxes, his legs practically dangling out of your car, “i bet you he’s gonna say the same shit i said. your car’s going in the dump, sweetheart.”

you slap his chest, “don’t say that! wishful thinking!”

“i’ll just buy you a new one.”

“do not do that, katsuki.”

“what if i say it’s for kenji?”

“kenji can’t drive—,”

“hey dynamight, miss yn,” the mechanic stumbles over, a man the same age as you and bakugou, midnight black hair and freckles. you don’t miss how he stares at you, longer than necessary then he looks to bakugou to talk about your car. “so i’m sorry to say i’m probably going to have to take it to the shop—,”

“talk to yn, it’s her car,” bakugou says in a grunt. you do a closed lipped smile at the guy and he blushes, a burgundy red flooding his cheeks. bakugou doesn’t try to hide his muttered, “fuck sake.”

“sorry, it’s because i was talking to you first… sorry. so i’m going to have to take your car to the shop, to see if i can find extra parts to fix it but it’s looking likely we’re going to have to dump it. i’m not sure how it even lasted this long.”

you pout at your little red car, hands holding bakugou’s forearm on your shoulder. you’ve had it for years, the first car you’ve driven kenji in, getting it probably third-hand online off of a second hand site. you’re going to miss her.

“oh okay. thank you for all your help, i’ll stay in contact,” you nod, you won’t admit it to bakugou, but you knew it was her time. “i’ll just take out my stuff and you can take her.”

bakugou helps to bring kenji’s car seat into his car, along with your bag, spare car blanket and any other bits and bobs you had lying around. 

“he wanted you. fuckin’ idiot. should have blasted him into next week,” despite carrying everything your car carried, bakugou still managed to open your car door, waiting for you to sit and slamming it behind you.

when he finally settles in the driver's seat, you watch your car roll away, attached to the mechanic’s truck. “he was cute.”

“hah? what the fuh—,”

you hold your baby father’s jaw with your thumb and pointer finger, amused at how quickly his face can go from beautiful to scrunched up and annoyed.

“i’m joking. not as cute as you in those glasses.”

now it’s bakugou’s turn for all the blood in his body to rise to his cheeks, looking away from you despite you holding him. you really love this seven o’clock shadow, the prickle beneath your fingers.

before he has a chance to reply verbally, your eyes light up in remembrance.

“i’m going to have to ask your mum to look after kenji this weekend. my mum’s on a city break,” then you grin slightly, tomfoolery brewing inside of you. bakugou kisses your palm, starting his car, “this why you don’t date your baby father, i usually leave him with you when i go on dates.”

he swings his head to glare at you, “why are you insisin’ on botherin’ me? should have had our date at a farm and i’d leave you there.”

you giggle and bakugou’s hand finds your thigh as he begins to drive, “where am i takin’ you? i already know the agency is blowin’ up my phone.”

you huff, sue you for wanting to spend more time with him, “just take me home, i had a hair appointment originally but i rescheduled it. you sure i can’t interest you in perhaps, coming back home with me, laying in bed… perhaps naked?”

he grips your bare thigh tightly, taking his eyes off the road for a second to glance at you, “who knew you’d be such a menace? i fuckin’ wish i could but i swear next time i’m gonna have you over my knee.”

your eyes widen, “katsuki!” 

you’d enjoy that, a lot actually.

“but thank you for earlier, i really fuckin’ enjoyed that. i hate leavin’ you like this.”

untouched, unsatisfied but you shake your head, “you don’t have to thank me for that. it’s sweet you think you do but next time.”

your last two words make the tension visible in the car, a hot bubble you’re both trapped in. bakugou sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and stares over at yours, “yeah baby, next time.”

katsuki: If you do want a new dress send me it and I’ll buy it for you

katsuki: Don’t buy one yourself 

You: noooo it’s fine i already have one i haven’t worn yet

katsuki: Can’t wait to see you baby gonna be so fucking pretty 

katsuki: Also my mum can look after Kenj

katsuki: She’s gonna ask so many fucking questions 

PART 4 / BABY DADDY MASTERLIST / SOMETHING ELSE

likes don’t do anything on tumblr! but reblogs, comments and asks mean the world! i delete comments asking for the next part. thanks xox

between midterms, a terrible class project partner, and your roommate constant need to fuck her boyfriend at any given hour of the day, you’re half asleep most days.

the only thing you should be doing is sleeping, anywhere, for hours, but instead, you let yourself get dragged to a halloween party. 

sure, you’re running on three hours of sleep and five cups of coffee, but heaven forbid you to miss a party because your roommate just had to be there. never mind that she’s been wearing her "not-so-pg sexy witch" costume since last tuesday, casting spells for her crush to notice her (like he doesn’t see half her skin every night anyway).

you look hotter than you'd like to admit. black mini dress? check. sky-high boots? check. a little lace mask that hides just enough to keep the mystery going? obviously.

you're not trying too hard, but you’re giving just enough to turn heads, with a vibe that says, “i might ruin your life, but you'll thank me for it."

you’re rocking some version of a "slutty masquerade," not that anyone could guess what that means, but it gets you a free drink within five minutes. and the best part? nobody knows it’s you.

the only downside is that you’re in his territory.

it could be anywhere, but it’s happening at his frat.

your project partner, personal headache and resident menace, rafe cameron holds court here like he’s king of the idiots.

he’s hot, you’ll give him that, guy’s all charm until it’s time to work; then he’s as useless as that cheap foundation your roommate keeps borrowing.

and now you’re here, half hoping to avoid his face entirely—his smirk that screams "’m getting credit off your hard work" and that irking attitude that makes him think he’s doing you a favor.

as if seeing him once a week in class isn’t enough of a problem. you pull your mask down a bit lower, not that he’d recognize you through the lace, but just in case.

against all odds, you’re having a good time. the drinks are good—something sugary—and you find yourself laughing, loosening up.

mid-laugh, you walk straight into someone, practically face-plant into a solid chest. you stagger back, the guy's hand catching your elbow to hold you, and you look up, only to be met with a ghostface mask.

“ohh, sorry,” he says with an amused chuckle like he's getting a kick out of startling you. "sorry, sorry—i  didn’t mean to scare you," he adds, not sounding remotely apologetic.

you raise a brow, your lips curving just slightly. “hmm, you sure? cause it kinda looks like you enjoy it."

he puts a hand up in mock innocence. “nah, i swear, completely unintentional,” 

you blink up at him, squinting against the red lighting to catch a better look at his mask. it’s honestly a little creepy up close, that ghostface grin somehow twisting a bit more under the lights and crowd. but you’re in the mood to get laid tonight.

"nice costume,” you don’t bother to hide the way your eyes stuck to every corner of his body, “scary.”

he doesn’t catch it though, leaning down, head tilting, “what?” he asks, chuckling a bit as he stands closer. “yeah, sorry—the music’s way too loud.”

rolling your eyes with a little attitude, you repeat yourself, a bit louder. “i said, your costume’s scary.”

he nods, shaking his head like he’s relieved, and rubs the back of his neck, as if this mask isn’t hiding the flush you think you see creeping up his neck. “oh, thanks. yeah, uh, you look…” his voice trails off a little, and he clears his throat, swallowing. “you look pretty, uh, scary too.”

you raise a brow, "you think so?"

he nods again, “yeah, ’m terrified of hot women, so…”

the music cuts him off this time around, his words getting lost in the heavy bass, it’s harder to know what he’s saying when you can’t read his lips. you frown, stepping closer into his space. “hmm?”

the guy practically jolts, “nothing, nothing—it’s, uh…” he stammers, then gestures at your face, his fingers brushing near your mask. “it’s a cool mask.”

you smile, amused. “thanks, ghostface. should i be, y’know, scared of you?”

 “i don’t know, that depends. should i be scared of you?”

"nop, you're cute. i like where this is going."

the guy’s mask tilts, there’s smidge of surprise in his voice. "really? so—so you’re into masks and, like, the whole psycho-killer thing?”

you shrug nonchalantly, letting your gaze drag over him slower. "only if they're hot and built like you."

there's a short pause, and you can practically feel the amused smile hidden under his mask. “oh, okay, yeah, yeah—so what is it? do you like being scared, or?”

there’s something about a guy like him—tall, broad-shouldered, who could probably break you in half without even trying. and honestly? you like that kind of shit. you’ve always wanted a guy who could cover you with his entire body, who’d tower over you in a way that was intimidating enough to make your heart pound. 

the kind that, if you begged nicely, might just be able to cut off your oxygen in bed with one hand. and here he is, looking like he could throw you around a little if you wanted him to. which you might. his hand still hovering near your waist isn’t exactly subtle either—it’s like he knows, somehow. either way, you keep your expression smooth, not giving him anything, it’s more fun that way.

you let out a giggle that’s only partly mocking. "maybe i just like danger, ghostface. or maybe i like watching people squirm."

“holy shit, that’s fucked up.”

you take a slow sip of your drink, watching his shirt cling to his chest as he takes a deep breath, every inch of that body sculpted to the fucking gods like it was made for nights like this. shit, that’s a nice body. 

you can’t help the sly smirk that pulls at your lips as you murmur, “what’s wrong with liking it rough?”

he snickers, almost breathlessly, and you know you’re getting to him. “there’s something a little wrong with you.”

yeah, there is. you almost blurt out the truth—that your panties are drenched and practically glued to your skin because of him, that he’s got you feeling hornier than you’ve felt in a long time. but you choose to let your fingers trail down his arm, slow and teasing. 

“you think so?” you faux-pout, giving him a look that’s all dark lashes and bad intentions.

he swallows, stumbling over his words. “y-yeah, i mean, there’s some things you need to… work on.”

you tilt your head, smiling in that way you know drives guys crazy, leaning in just enough to make him catch his breath. “would you like to help me?”

he stares at you, goosebumps rising along his arm where your fingers still rest, visibly caught off guard, “what does that mean?”

with a wicked grin, you reach up, wrapping your manicured hands around his neck, his breath all but halting as you pull him down until his face is level with yours. his breath hitches, and you take your time, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear, enough to make him shiver. 

“you find me upstairs,” you murmur, voice dripping with promise, “and ’m all yours. okay?”

instead of waiting for him to process it, you’re already sneaking off into the crowd, leaving him rooted. you don’t try looking back, already feeling his stare burning into you, dazed and desperate as he takes in what you just promised. you don’t second guess yourself once, you know he’s coming.

by the time he shakes himself out of his trance, you’re halfway up the stairs.

at the top, you stop, one quick peek over your shoulder to check if he’s still watching.

you push open a random door and slip into an empty room, locking eyes with yourself in the mirror. hair a little wild, eyes glinting with that mischievous glint you know all too well. you adjust your mask, the lace sitting just right over your cheekbones. you pull your dress higher, letting it ride up just a little higher, admiring the way the fabric clings to you, showing off every curve.

you turn the lights off, letting the room fall into shadows. he’ll have to work for it if he wants to find you. you can imagine the way he’ll hesitate, hand hovering over the doorknob, wondering what the hell he’s getting himself into. 

why make it easy for him?

rafe watches you leave, standing there like a fucking idiot, heart hammering in his chest as he replays what just happened. the words “find me upstairs, and i’m all yours” looping in his mind like a mantra. the confidence in your voice, the way you looked at him like you already knew he’d be following—fuck, it’s enough to make him hard just thinking about it.

he swallows, trying to be calm as he looks around, but there’s no hiding the way his breathing’s quickened, how his body is buzzing at the thought of finding you, alone, in a dark room, just waiting for him.

you’re playing with him, he tells himself, but he doesn’t care. he’s going to go after you anyway.

pushing through the crowd, he’s half-dazed, talking to himself under his breath, almost wheezing out a series of what the fucks. his grip wraps around the banister as he ascends the stairs, his fingers still itching from where you’d brushed against him. he feels completely out of his element. girls flirt with him all the time, he’s with girls all the time, sure, but this—this is different. 

he always been a sucker for a good challenge and you’d practically left him in the dust, tossing back that promise without even checking if he’d follow.

at the top, he pauses, looking down the hallway, every door holding the possibility that you might be behind it, waiting. 

rafe feels that thrill coil in his stomach, his heart pounding in anticipation. he’s like a kid on halloween night, trick-or-treating at the house he’s always been too afraid to knock on. but you dared him, so there’s no way he’s backing out now.

he starts with the first door, pushing it open only to find it empty, checking the shadows, in case you’re hiding, but nothing. he goes into the next door, finding a couple already in there, and quickly shuts it again, eyes slamming shut, ignoring their annoyed stares as he backs out.

third time’s the charm, yeah? he thinks, reaching for the next door and pulling it open. the door creaks as it swings shut behind him, his footsteps are slow, hesitant, and the scuff of his shoes against the floor makes him cringe. 

it takes him a second for his eyes to adjust to the dark, pupils dilating as he walks further inside.his breathing is loud and uneven, almost like he’d run all the way here. he stops in the middle of the room, his chest rising and falling hard, his breath painfully audible. 

his heart is doing an annoying thing, pounding, and he swears he can hear it.

did he misread you? the space is eerily quiet, he can’t help but wonder if he’s been set up, if you’re somewhere downstairs, laughing at how eagerly he followed your trail up here like a fucking dumbass.

rafe scans the room’s edges, searching, and he notices a quick movement in the corner—something. he swallows he leans forward a little, squinting to make out any familiar shape.

“you wanna play hide and seek?” he calls out, hoping he’s not making a fool out of himself, “is that it?” he’s taking gulps of air, feeling dizzy from being in the dark for so long, “you like this?”

a quiet giggle echoes from one of the corners, inviting, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. you’re playing this game too well, lurking just beyond his reach, and the longer he waits, the more desperate he feels.

he swallows, his mind spiraling as he steps walks around, slow and cautious, hands slightly trembling. he’s caught off guard by just how badly he wants you; the way you kept looking at him like he was the prey downstairs, has him all kinds of worked up. 

his cock stirring against his jeans is proof enough. 

“you want me to scare you or somethin’?” he provokes you, praying it’s enough to lure you out, “you think it’s smart? letting a stranger chase you into a room, with no one else around. you’re all alone with me.”

“who says you’re that dangerous?”

the second the words leave your mouth, rafe’s resolve slips. 

it’s maddening, the way you’re hiding from him, how your voice seems to come to him from every dark corner of the room. he shouldn’t have drowned two shots before following you, but the liquid courage had been tempting. 

you’re keeping him on a tight leash, making him wonder if he’s got a shot or if you’re just messing with his head. he wants to see you again, your expression—wants to read you, even if the last time he tried, he ended up with his mind in knots.

“you don’t even know my name,” he muses, taking a couple steps closer to the closet, “does that make it more fun for you? that you don’t know anything about me?”

his movements are cautious, almost reverent as if you’re something sacred and forbidden all at once. he stops, opening the doors, leaning inside as he half-whispers, “not here, huh?” no answer, just silence, but he swears he can feel you watching him, your gaze prickling his skin, almost burning, “where are you? c’mon come out, i’ll go easy on you.”

he sighs, sounding like more of a frustrated exhale. no sign of you anywhere. he shakes his head, letting out a soft laugh, more amused than annoyed. 

“be a good girl and come out.”

rafe stalks around the room with the focus of someone hunting prey, his footsteps deliberate, his hands gliding along the walls and over furniture. he reaches the small bathroom door adjacent to the room, his fingers tightening around the handle. his lips pull into a smirk as he pauses—listening. 

the room’s quiet, but then, he hears it: the faint, uneven rhythm of your breathing, a quickened inhale, almost as if his words had finally affected you. he stops dead, dropping his hand from the door and turning around with a dark gleam in his eyes. 

“wait—wait,” his voice lowers with satisfaction, with the thrill of the chase. he lets out a breathy chuckle, his eyes roving the room as he zeroes in on where you’re hiding. “i can hear you, can hear you breathing.” 

he takes a slow, taunting step, his head tilting, as though he’s relishing the way you’re fighting to stay silent, to keep control. 

“what’s the matter? you sound a little…” he trails off in a murmur, enjoying the tables turning. “...shaken up. are you scared?”

your breath slips, just enough to betray you and his lips quirk up.

“i know exactly where you are.” with lazy confidence, he walks over to the far corner where the heavy velvet curtains seem to pool against the floor, drawn closed over the tall, narrow window. 

his fingers brush the fabric, his eyes narrowing as if he can feel the warmth of you just on the other side. then, in one smooth motion, he grabs the curtain and yanks it open. 

“caught you.”

moonlight spills in, illuminating you both. in a second, you’re pressed against the wall, lips parted, cheeks flushed, and his eyes rake over you, lingering on the way your costume accentuates every curve of your body. 

he steps in close, his silhouette blocking the light as he cages you in, one hand pressing against the wall beside your head, the other landing on your waist. his gaze drops to your lips, taking time to roam the way you’re biting your lip.

you tilt your chin up, “maybe i just like trouble.” 

rafe’s grip on your waist tightens in response, a hunger that he can’t hide, while he’s memorizing the way you’re looking up at him, ready to push him just as far as he can take it.

“you’re in trouble, alrigh’,” he shakes his head, while his hand inches down, slipping lower along your body until his thumb brushes against the curve of your hip, “don’t think you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

your fingers slide up his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his black shirt, the way his heart hammers from your touch alone.

“maybe that’s what i want,” you whisper, tipping your head up so your lips brush against his mask.

he shudders, and you let your fingers trail slowly down, tracing over the line of his collarbone. rafe swallows hard, his body thrumming with tension. his eyes dropping to your mouth once again, wishing he’d been smart enough to take the mask off, so he could kiss you. 

“you don’t know what you’re asking for,” he breathes, but the glint in his eyes says otherwise. he’s already melting under your touch, the desperation in the way he holds onto you confessing just how badly he needs it.

“you want me?” you ask, watching his pupils dilate as you lean in even closer, close enough that he can smell the fruity trace of your drink on your breath trough the mask, the lingering sweetness making him light-headed.

 jesus fucking christ where have you been all his life?

“yeah,” he mutters, voice strained, eyes half-lidded as he stares down at you, “i want you.” his hand trails up your side, down the line of your dress, stopping just at the hem. he hesitates, holding himself back for your sake, the look in his eyes begging for permission, daring you to say something, to let him go further.

you smirk, letting your fingers slip lower, grazing over the top of his waistband, “’m already so wet for you.”

a rough, almost growling sound escapes his throat as his fingers taunt around you, his control slipping at the admission. “yeah?” he grunts, letting his hand glide under the hem of your dress, his fingers inching higher, grazing along the sensitive skin of your thigh, “lets find out.”

the first brush of his fingers against your thong sends a shiver from your head to your toes, his smirk growing. he’s bold now, unapologetic as he moves them up, grazing the thin barrier of fabric between his hand and you.

your panties are ruined, drenched, and stuck to you most uncomfortably, he can tell from the way you keep pushing your hips forward, begging him to do something. 

he doesn’t think twice before using two fingers to pull the sticky fabric to the side.

“fuck,” he mutters to himself, “all this for me?”

you have to bite your lip to stop a moan from slipping out when he finally touches you properly. two of his long, thick fingers press against your entrance, sliding into you with no resistance. the feeling of your cunt clamping around him makes his cock twitch. 

he works you open, even the slightest touches have you arching your back from the wall. the need in his eyes turns ravenous with every desperate little gasp you let out. he moves slowly, deliberately, feeling the warmth of you clenching around his him, as he curls his fingers just right, 

“you’re so wet, ah, yeah—you’re gonna scream for me?”

his thumb finds your clit with ease, and he presses down, drawing gentle circles that make your knees buckle. he grins, drinking in every sound you’re trying to bite back. his thumb stays steady over your clit, circling with the perfect rhythm, applying just enough pressure to keep you breathless.

“c’me here,” his other hand moves with swift, easy dominance, capturing your wrists and pinning them above your head, holding you firmly against the wall,” you like this shit?” 

“you’re gonna fuck me with the mask on?” you grind yourself harder against him, practically delusional from the way he’s making you feel, “kinky.”

he's mesmerized by the way your breasts jolt underneath your dress with each shaky breath you take, your skin feels feverish, heat radiating off it like a furnace.

“just like you wanted,” he promises, his voice filled with satisfaction as his thumb presses down harder, coaxing a soft whimper from your lips. “go on, let me hear it—ride my hand.”

he tightens his hold on your wrists, keeping you perfectly in place, not prying his eyes away from how your brows frow with every grind. 

“fuckkkkk, do that again,” you whine when he hits a particular spot, your walls tightening around him in a way that makes him want to stop the foreplay and fuck you right away.

rafe leans forward to coo praise into your ear, “like this?” your skin is sticky with sweat—some saliva too—his. he’s never been this fucking hard in his life. he slows down on purpose, to torture you, doing anything in his power to make you beg, “ooh look at you— a fuckin mess.” he taunts.

“don’t be an asshole,” you groan, fingers itching to be set free, and grab his shoulders so you can slam down on him harder, “you gotta make me cum if you wanna fuck me.”

he runs deep circles into your clit making you press your legs together, knowing that he's getting exactly what he wants makes him chuckle into your skin. by this point as he mindlessly humps against your writhing body, he’s peeking down, taking a moment to admire the mess of slickness between your thighs.

“you want more?” you’re so caught up in the feeling that you don’t notice his hand leaving yours, wrapping it around your neck, pulling you closer to him, “answer me”

“another finger,” you spit out when he tightens his grip on your neck, the added touch having you on the brink.

rafe doesn’t even look at you, too entranced by your mess to make eye contact. he never got so lost during sex, but your pussy’s making him intoxicated to the point where his senses are dull, and the part of him that’s fully aware is his dick. 

he’s not even inside you yet, and still, he can cum just from seeing you ride his fingers. “another?”

he groans at the way one of your hands move to flex over his, watching in amusement as you try to get him to add one more finger. he mutters a low, gruff “good girl” as he slides a third finger in, pressing just deep enough to make your legs tremble, since you asked so nicely.

“think you can handle more?” rafe prods, “you’re so tight, don’t think you can take me.”

the way his fingers work, methodical and relentless, leaves you barely able to breathe, let alone answer.

“i could take t-two of you,” you tease, letting a breath out, and turning your head to face him. god you wondered if he looked good under that mask, but if he was this good in bed, who fucking cared.

“the only thing you’re taking is this fucking costume off,” he grumbles against your shiny lips, fanning like a wild animal catching the scent of its prey. he’s already tugging at the material, pulling the straps to the side before you can, nudging it aside, “look at you. gotta get my hands on you.”

rafe moves his attention to your breast and squeezes firmly, the tips of his fingers clasping down on your nipple, pressing and pulling as he chases after those sweet sounds that leave your lips.

“look at these tits, fuck” he rasps, eyes trailing over your chest and savoring every inch, his breath almost a snarl, “this’ what you wanted?”

you pressed your lips to his neck, ignoring the deep rumble in his chest as you sucked marks into his flesh, nipping him less than gently. grunting at a particularly rough bite you landed just under his adam’s apple, “i wanted your cock not your finger—"

his pitches your nipple harder making you squirm, “watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

the way you’re creaming his hand should be illegal, but this man is clearly sent from above. someone finally listened to you and gave you exactly what you needed to survive your dry spell. 

you reach down to cup him up through his jeans, “or what?”

he moans, head dropping to your shoulder, “fuck,” he mutters, his tone conveying that he’s just as distracted, watching how your puffy folds glisten with your arousal.

“hmmm, can’t hear you ghostface.”

rafe’s too entranced to put you in your place, you’ve got him eating out the palm of your hand. the sounds of your pussy sucking in his fingers are obscene, the simple act of your hand grazing cock has his knees buckling.

he can feel his heart beating miles a minute and he swears he could die right there, his hand coming down to grip the swell of your ass, kneading it firmly. you sigh contently with every slow drag of his hand, your head falling on his shoulder, nipping at his neck no doubt marking him up again.

“open your mouth.” you lift your head immediately, no smartass bullshit coming out of your lips, he chuckles breathlessly at your impatience, fingers moving from your ass to your parted hole, “suck my fingers, go on.”

it’s hard to make any coherent thought when his fingers are still inside you, dragging against your spongy walls deliciously, but your tongue automatically slips around his digits, doing your best to suck them down your throat. you’d never felt so willing to let a man bend you however he wants to, hushed curses escaping your occupied mouth, raking your nails down his arm. 

“good girl, yeahhhh, that’s it,” he grunts when you prod his skin harder, “you like diggin’ your nails into me, like it rough, huh? ‘course you do,” he stammers out when you clamp harder around him, your slick making everything slippery, “course you fucking do.”

with his fingers buried deep inside you and your lips wrapped around his other hand, rafe’s fully intoxicated, drunker than he can ever get. the sounds you make, he never wanted to taste something so bad, if it wasn’t for his stupid mask—

“take this thing off—" he grinds his hips into you, the rough fabric of his jeans pressing deliciously against your bare skin, teasing you, while his hand leaves your mouth to do nothing else but rip your panties apart.

you let out a huff, glancing down at what’s left of your underwear as he tosses it aside like nothing, already sliding his back up your thigh, “you’re paying for those.”

“whatever you want.”

you’re already occupied with his stupid belt, fingers quickly working to take the damn thing off, pawing at him to help. it’s only then he leaves your pussy unattended, settling his hold on your hips while you fumble with his jeans, unbuttoning them and snapping them open, his bulge straining against the fabric of his boxers. 

he grabs the underside of your thigh, picking your leg up and wrapping it around his waist, backing you two further into the wall, eyes gazing into yours, even though you can’t see him. why the fuck do your eyes look so familiar?

the tip of his dick kisses the skin of your pussy, the firm head bumping against your clit as he rubs himself against you, “happy?”

looking down, you watch his cock slide back and forth between your thighs, the friction making heat slowly rise in your core, warmth swarming in your chest. he’s so fucking big. you watch him, eyes half-lidded, your legs aching from the position, almost drooling from the sight alone. 

you don’t know how much longer you can let him tease you.

“so happy,” you nod, not tearing your attention from him.

“yeah?” he cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed, concentrating not to cum on the spot with the way you’re eating his cock alive just with your pretty little eyes, “you’re gonna let a stranger fuck you?”

rafe reaches down, teasingly rubbing the tip of his dick over your folds, tracing it over your clit a few times. you look up, lips curling into the most earth-shattering smirk.“i can always find someone el—"

you both groan when he slides into you with no warning, your warm walls enveloping him perfectly, sucking him in like a vice, a perfect tight fit. he pumps you so full, not waiting for any adjustment, your walls fluttering around his girth, thick tip slightly curved up from your position.

“fuck, fuck, fuckkk,” he drawls out, rolling his hips in tight circles, slowly fucking into you, dragging himself along your walls to learn what you like, “this pussy, oh—so good.”

your head falls back against the wall, sighing in pleasure. you want him to let go and beat your walls loose, especially when he looks so good doing it. you melt into him, body sagging, downright losing it with how easily he holds you up and still pounds relentlessly into you, your breathing picking up with his change of pace. 

he’s so strong.

“this good enough for ya?” he murmurs against your ear, picking on the way your body shudders, a scream for anyone outside that door to hear, “hmm? you like my voice, right here?”

“you’re gonna make me cum,” you feel yourself grip him harder, his thick cock stretching you open, dragging out moan after moan from your lips, “oh my god.”

it’s the sweetest torture, the way his pelvis smacks against your tummy with every thrust, barely even pulling out to roll back into you.

“such a fuckin’ slut, aren’t you?” he growls, “letting a stranger fuck you open—holy shit, holy shit,” he hisses, almost as if he’s in pain, when you teasingly whine your hips back into him, fluttering at the low sound he breaths right by your ear.  “shit, you’re squeezing—fuck.”

“you’re so b-big,” you wheeze at a rough thrust, hand coming down to press against his lower stomach.

“yeah? good enough for you, huh?” his hips increase in rhythm, rocking into you, his thrusts precise, beating against your g-spot with vigor, “takin’ it so good baby.”

by now you’re seeing stars in your vision from the white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine, smart mouth forgotten, “harder.”

“harder?” he’s fucking into you at such a pace you feel like he’s gonna split you in half, “don’t think you can take it.”

“please.”

it sounds too pretty coming out of your mouth. having a girl like you beg feeds his ego like nothing else. 

he buries himself so deep, his pelvis is pressed hard against the hilt of your mound, fingers coming down to pinch and roll your neglected clit between his fingers.

“fucking take it then.” rafe snaps his hips with every word, glaring into your teary eyes. 

you gasp, nodding your head frantically, too fucked out to even use your words properly when he bottoms out properly, leaving you entirely only to slam inside harder than before. you squeal, not expecting him to use his entire body strength to almost fold in half while you’re still standing.

“no one can h-hear you down here, go ahead,” your mouth runs dry as you feel his body helplessly pressing into yours, “lemme hear those pretty noises, c’mon, scream f’me.”

you’ve never moaned so loud in your life, hands coming up to tweak your nipples, him filling you to the brim, “w-where the fuck have you b-been?”

he chuckles, though it comes out strained, “right here,” he makes a point by ramming into your g-spot perfectly, “hold your leg up f’me.”

for once in your life, you do as you’re told while focusing on his clothed stomach, feeling it constrict with every deep breath he takes. 

“you look so pretty like this,” you hear him praise you, one of his hands sliding down the span of your back, coming down to wrap around your hair and forcing your head up, “could fuck you for hours.”

the tip of his dick is kissing right against your cérvix, “not stopping you.”

“yeah? that’s how good is it?” he laughs, “can’t believe stranger cock does it for you.”

you open your mouth to speak, probably to give him shit about how he wouldn’t stop teasing you, but your words run dry as you feel the familiar sensation of his fingers playing with your overstimulated clit. motherfucker.

your body tenses as he builds up the pressure, and a strangled symphony of your wails leaves your sore throat. it’s too much and not enough at the same time, the pressure of his cock as well as his fingers, he’s quite literally fucking you dumb. 

“nothin’ to say now, huh?”

the better it feels, the farther gone you’re in your mind, “s-shut the fuck up.”

if you were with someone else, it would bother you that your tits are quite literally out while he’s still dressed, besides the jeans pooling by his ankles, but that stupid black wife beater looks mouthwatering on him. 

somehow the outfit and the mask add to the allure, not knowing who’s behind it, but still letting him treat you like a rag doll. you’re bouncing down onto him, almost sniffling as your pussy’s still twitching and soaking, so close to your well-deserved orgasm.

“cum inside,” your head’s starting to sting from how bad you need to cum,“please.”

rafe swears he almost falls on his ass, “what?”

“inside,” you grit out, eyes closed in bliss, “want to feel you cum inside.”

he lets out a groan at the way you say it, “are you serious? oh fuck, what a little cock-slut.” he can’t help but let out a chuckle at your fucked-out state, lost in the chase of your own pleasure to care about how pitiful you look right now, “you’re gonna cum around me? go on,” he coos, kneading at the flesh of your thighs.

you nod, slipping out a high-pitched ‘mhm’, knowing this shit is about to hit you like a train. you arch yourself into him, whimpering lewdly and cutting small moon crescents into his shoulders with your long nails.

rafe feels like he’s lost all ability to fuck anyone else but you, growling at the filthy thoughts swimming through his mind, the urge to fill you up with his cum getting stronger as he enjoys watching you. 

a strained whimper escapes you as you lean forward to bury your head in his shoulder, groaning against the skin, “don’t stop.”

“n-never stopping, c’mon,” you swear you see stars while he’s slipping out curses and praises that you’re not even sure make sense. “holy shit, yeahh, fuck.”

he applies a little more pressure to your clit and that’s all it takes for you to be gone, your chest touching his, blinding flashes of paradise filling your vision as you leave reality, having it ripped away from you. 

your mouth is parted in the most beautiful oh shape he’s ever witnessed. tears are streaking down your eyes and he can’t help but be turned on by them.

“oh! fuck, fucking—” you squeeze your eyes shut, having no idea how you pulled the words out between continuous sobs that escape from you.

rafe feels like a fucking creep, he can’t take his eyes off you for the life of him, hips snapping animalistically into your pussy while he grunts, groans, and cries as he talks you through it, “that’sss itt, so good, so fuckin’ perfect.”

he tilts your chin up, forcing you to look at him, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. 

he’s chasing his orgasm while he watches yours; he all but whines when he releases inside of you, not slowing down in the slightest as he makes sure you take every drop. his hand comes down on your stomach forcing you back down with his python grip, feeling his bulge right there makes his eyes roll as his hand tightens on your waist. you’re still clenching and spasming as you milk him dry, “fuckin’ take it.”

his hips don’t let up, grinding into your core despite him already finishing inside of you. for another ten minutes.

five minutes later, you’re both a little hazy from the endorphin rush, still processing. once he pulls away, rafe feels a lazy grin stretching across his face, feeling more satisfied than ever. unlike the past hour, the room isn’t filled with your moans, but complete silence as you both try to breathe like normal people again, collecting yourselves, adjusting clothes, and then there’s an unspoken agreement that maybe, it’s time to see who’s behind the masks.

you fumble with the edges of the fabric, hesitating for a moment before finally pulling them off, unveiling each other’s faces.

you freeze, staring at him in disbelief.

“you gotta be fucking kiddin’ me,” you nearly burn a hole through his head, eyes narrowing with pure annoyance as you process this disaster, voice dripping with irritation, “what the fuck? rafe?”

he’s completely still, staring at you with his mouth wide open, eyes wide like he’s just seen a ghost—everything you’re hurling at him is going in and out his ears. the realization that he just spent the last hour fucking you is making him dumber. the girl he’d been thinking about, dreaming about, wanting more than he’d ever admit, even to himself.

the anger in your eyes, the annoyed way you’re crossing your arms and glaring at him—it’s so perfectly you. he’s watched you in class a hundred times, always stealing glances when you weren’t looking or cursing his ass off, catching little glimpses of your attitude that only made him want you more. 

but he’d never thought he’d get a moment like this. 

bless halloween.

“are you even listening to me?” you snap, catching his starstruck expression, waving a hand in front of his face. “hello? earth to cameron? stop looking at me like a puppy, this was a mistake.”

more than a mistake. you can’t believe you just fucked the reason why you didn’t want to come to the party in the very first place. 

and the worst part is that you’d do it again.

“i…i just…wow,” he breathes, “it’s really you.” he lets out an incredulous laugh, rubbing a hand over his jaw “can’t believe it.”

you groan, rolling your eyes and shaking your head in exasperation. “are you serious right now?

“can i eat you out?”

you blink, realizing you’ve been staring, “what?”

he takes a step closer, filling the small space between you. you swear the sound of his next words drag a whimper from your throat, “can i eat you out?”

you nearly choke to death as his hand ghost near your waist, the barest brush of contact, sending sparks dancing across your skin, “right now?”

rafe leans down to your size, eager to get on his knees and taste you.

“why not?”

well, fucking damnit.

. . . the sound of your voice hits him like a truck as he goes through the voicemails left on his phone.

“chris, hey… listen, i’m a little bored right now and i was wondering if you could come over. i’ve got a new set i’ve been wanting to show you, anyways. call me back, babe.”

he doesn’t hesitate to hit the play button again and again, just to hear the sultriness of your tone. just to imagine how you were probably lazily playing with yourself when you sent the message, fingers covered in your own slick as you half-prep yourself for him... between jail, the whole suicide squad business, and being in the hospital for five months, smith had forgotten all about you, his superpowered fuckbuddy.

his dick remembers, though, hardening half-way as he plays the voicemail back for a fourth time. briefly, chris wonders if you remember him.

only one way to find out, right?

. . . so now smith’s here, standing in front of your door. he knocks three times, then waits. there’s some soft noises from behind the door before you open up. you look… different. older. hotter, he thinks.

“christopher?” your eyebrows raise in surprise as you take him in. he’s changed very little from the last time you saw him; same old costume that he always seems to wear, same old overconfident and smug facial expression. at least he’s not wearing his silver helmet. he’s got more muscle on him than you remember, though. for several seconds, your gaze naturally settles along his biceps. then you force yourself to make eye contact with peacemaker.

the brunette just grins, leaning in your doorway. “still bored?”

“what?”

smith only scoffs, as if you were being silly. “the voicemail. i mean, i know you left it a while ago but— c’mon, can’t be too late to cash in on some ass, right?”

your mind races as you try to remember the last time you called chris. it’s been… literal years. two, maybe three? four? you stopped reaching out when you realized he wasn’t going to reply. and now he’s here, responding to a (probably desperate) voicemail that you left ages ago. “you’re joking.”

he’s not. “i would never joke about wanting to fuck your brains out,” he says firmly, shifting some in your doorway. he adjusts his pants, which causes you to glance down briefly and… how is he already so hard?

you bite your lip, memories of what you and smith used to get up to flashing through your mind. even so, you shake your head no. “we can’t. i won’t, i mean. fuck off, chris,” you mutter, beginning to close the door.

chris is quick to keep the door open, however, using his foot as a wedge. “why the hell not? c’mon, we had so much fun. remember that time on the plane? or behind the dumpster? or in my trailer?”

“i’ve got a boyfriend,” you blurt, interrupting peacemaker from reminiscing further. you cross your arms in an attempt to be stern. “we’ve been dating for a few months.” he’s a good boyfriend, too. it would be wrong to cheat on him. you couldn’t sleep with peacemaker.

“yeah? we fucked for years,” smith hisses. he pauses before peering past your head into your place, looking around. “where is this guy, anyways?”

“working.” you try pushing chris’ foot out of the way so your door could close, but it’s a halfhearted effort. you shouldn’t sleep with peacemaker.

“not here? not pleasing you?” he asks, voice low. the brunette takes a subtle step closer to you, smirking. “c’mon. for old time’s sake. he doesn’t have to know.” his hands reach for your waist, his grip on you all too familiar. firm but not forceful; smith never forces you into anything. mostly because he never has to.

this time isn’t any different. you scoff. you pretend that you don’t miss him, too. you let smith inside, shame giving way to excitement as you feel him rub your lower back in approval. you were definitely going to sleep with peacemaker.

. . . it isn’t long before the two of you are naked and fucking on the couch in open missionary. chris had insisted on “seeing your pretty face” since you’d been apart for so long. the whole thing is wordless; just grunts, groans, moans, and heat. so much heat. like an animal, he pounds into you with reckless abandon, stretching you out around his fat cock. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air— he’s rough, only because you have the durability to handle it thanks to your superpowers.

your orgasm comes first, surging through your body as you moan his name. the brunette on top of you finishes shortly after, groaning against your neck. he stays in for a second or so, kissing whatever skin he can manage to press his lips to, before sliding out and moving to stand. he gently pulls you up, chuckling at your confused expression.

“i’m not done with you yet— been in prison for four years, sweetheart, with just my hand. i‘m just getting started on this pussy,” he explains, dragging you along to your kitchen. with ease, smith lifts you up and sets you on your countertop. the cool sensation of the counter against your ass sends a shiver through your body, your toes curling briefly. “fingers or tongue?” he asks.

you can barely reply, still panting from your orgasm. cum dribbles from your quivering cunt down your thigh as you look up at chris through half-lidded eyes. your lips open to reply, but all you can manage is to keep panting like a dog. “ah..”

one of his hands reaches for your hair, gently tugging back. peacemaker leans in as your head rolls, nosing your neck as if to smell you. you wouldn’t be surprised if he was smelling you. he’s like an animal, sometimes… of course, right when you string a coherent thought together, beginning to come down from your orgasm, smith lifts his head. “c’mon, pretty girl, use your words,” he teases, biting down on the outer shell of your ear. he doesn’t hold back, pushing his canine down on the flesh of your ear.

“fingers!” you yelp out, “fuck, fingers. fingers, chris.”

“atta girl. knew you could do it,” he laughs, pressing a kiss to your (now stinging) ear. “there’s nothing you can’t handle.” the brunette flashes a smile at you before lining three fingers up to your entrance. he pushes gently, slowly coating his fingertips with a mixture of your slick and his cum.

you squeeze your thighs shut, though, before he can slip his fingers all the way inside. “three’s too much,” you whine, gripping his wrist.

“bullshit. if you can take my dick— which you did, and you did very well, princess— you can take three fingers.” smith only has to wait a moment or so before you open your legs again. his three fingers line up to your entrance once more, rubbing gently along your cunt before slowly working themselves in. “nice and easy, see,” he murmurs as he pushes them in, grinning as you whimper. “you got it, gorgeous. look at that, all three in, knuckle-deep, and no one’s hurt. right?”

you look into his eyes as you nod, biting your lip. all you can focus on is the feeling of your cunt clenching around his fingers. chris was right in assuming you could take it; your pussy adjusts to his fingers rather quickly. it isn’t long before you squirm a bit, searching for friction.

“that’s it,” he coaxes softly as you start to fuck yourself on his fingers. smith leans down once more, this time pressing a kiss to your temple. he smiles against your skin as he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. “feel that? bet your boyfriend doesn’t do it like this, huh? i bet he’s a fucking pussy.”

“chris,” you begin, only to be cut off by peacemaker curling his fingers, causing you to moan. you try your hardest to cling to your dignity, but it’s hard to do when your walls are clinging to peacemaker’s fingers. “chris, please.”

of course, he just laughs, pecking your lips. it’s amusing, the way you pout when he mocks your current boyfriend. arousing, too. the more frustrated you get, the more fun it is to make you moan. smith glances down at your chest, lowering his head to lick at your left breast. “and look at these,” he coos into your skin, “oh, i’ve missed these tits. so beautiful.” he looks up at you as he begins to suckle on your nipple, tracing his tongue in circles before wrapping his lips around it and humming just to watch you squirm.

“fuck— nghh,” you groan, back arching your breast further into his mouth. one hand of yours is holding chris’ head, fingers tangled in his hair. the other is gripping the edge of the counter, cracking the granite slightly because you can’t bring yourself to control your strength.

chris pulls back, leaving a saliva trail on your tit. he smirks before muttering, “relax. you’re gonna break the damn counter, princess.”

“fuck off, chris,” you grit out, eyes closing for a moment. “fuck. c’mon, make me come before i tear the damn counter out.”

hot. still, he can’t resist the urge to tease you. “i dunno… it’s been years, i’m not even sure i know where your sweet spot is.” smith aims his fingers around for a few pumps, pretending to search. he slides his fingers in a little deeper each time, pressing around. “here? maybe here? where is your little sweet spot, huh?”

your response comes in the form of a groan, your head rolling back as you rut into his fingers. he’s so close it’s infuriating, fingertips just barely grazing your prostate as he “searches”. you tear up, letting out a whine of frustration.

the sound of you whining, as pathetic as it is, gets him to relent his teasing. “i’m just joking around. i could never forget how to make you scream,” chris finally admits, kissing your neck. he curls his fingers again, targeting your sweet spot, ramming his fingers against it and causing you to choke on your own gasping.

“ack— haahh, chris, fuck me, oh fuck— chris, chris!” you moan out as your second orgasm rips through your body. it’s a warm wave that crashes hard, causing your eyes to roll back and your legs to twitch as you come all over his fingers. smith pumps for a few moments more, letting the squelching sound echo through your home before he pulls his fingers out.

“ah, look at that. pretty little pussy, covered in cum. i bet you’d lick it off my fingers if i told you to,” he remarks, gently patting your thigh. smith waits until your eyes slowly make their way back over to him before he licks his fingers clean. “mmm, tastes so good,” he moans around his fingers, putting on a show only to laugh when you look away in embarrassment.

things go quiet between the two of you until you speak again. “chris,” you start, only to be cut off.

“want round three, pretty girl?”

you swallow thickly. peacemaker shouldn’t know you so well after all these years. and yet… “yeah,” you murmur.

the brunette grins, thanking god above for your super stamina. “anything for you, baby.” he scoops you into his arms, walking towards the bedroom. smith sets you down on the bed before laying beside you on his back. “which pillow’s your boyfriend’s?” he asks. when you point towards the left one, he rests his head on it. then he pats his thighs, “c’mere.”

you don’t hesitate to crawl over, gently taking hold of his dick and stroking it a few times. you move to hover above his cock, lining yourself up before slowly sinking down on it. the action causes the both of you to moan softly in unison, a lustful harmony.

you rest for a few seconds before raising yourself up and sliding back down, beginning to ride him. all the strength you had left was being used solely to force him deep inside you. as if he were a toy, you stretched yourself out on him, moaning out his name as you force his tip to press against your prostate. your toes curl at the sensation, a heat building rather quickly in your lower stomach. more. it’s all you can think about as you ride him: more, more, more— deeper, harder, louder, hotter—

“fuck, are you trying to get pregnant or something?” he groans out, teasing you as if he hadn’t already came inside before. chris grips your hips, holding you still as he thrusts up into you. “bet you don’t let your sissy boyfriend come inside, right? is that right, pretty girl? tell me— holy fuck— would you let him come in you like i do?”

“no!” you gasp out, feeling him press hard against your sweet spot. you grind yourself against him, your entire body running hot. the room feels like a sauna, and you’re sure you’re slick with sweat all over.

“but you’ll let me come inside this pretty pussy, won’t you?” smith goes on, fingernails pressing into your skin.

“yes— fuck yes, chris!”

the room fills with sounds of sex as you and chris grow overstimulated and close to coming. words begin to fail you both. smith babbles a little, but it’s no use. soon enough, all that leaves your lips is just noises, raw and animalistic. he thrusts deep, hands gripping your waist so tightly it almost hurts. you can feel a familiar sense of pressure building up, causing you to whimper.

then, finally, you come.

it wrecks you. the first orgasm was rough, the second was harsh, but this one? it drains you of any energy you had left. you slump, your legs twitching around chris as you curl forward. the brunette slides his dick out of you clumsily, laying you down beside him. juices dribble down your thigh as he begins fisting his cock beside you, sitting up just enough to aim at your face— it comes out in thick ropes, splattering along your lips, nose, cheeks, and chin. he grunts as he comes, still pumping before crumpling beside you, panting like a dog.

“you look so hot right now,” he says as soon as he regains the ability to speak, turning towards you with a grin.

if you had the strength, you’d slap him. instead, you stare at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath. then, slowly, you turn your head to look at him.

“chris,” you manage, your voice breathy, “fuck off.”

“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”

“Well, aren't you smart?”

“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”

Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”

Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”

“Now why would you say that?”

“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”

“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”

Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”

“So there’s this girl—”

“Here we go again.”

“—which is totally your type.”

“You said that last time.”

“But this time I mean it.”

“You said that the time before last time.”

“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”

“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”

Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.

For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.

Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.

Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”

Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”

“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”

That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.

It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.

They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.

“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”

Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”

In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”

If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.

As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.

Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”

Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”

Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”

That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.

In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.

The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:

Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.

Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, claiming they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.

Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.

Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.

Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.

Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.

Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.

Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.

The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?

Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”

“I can always create you a Hinge account—”

“We’re definitely not doing that.”

Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”

Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”

Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”

Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”

“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”

A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”

“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”

“Well—”

“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”

Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”

“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”

“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.

Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”

“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.

“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”

“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.

Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”

“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.

Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”

Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.

Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.

While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.

You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.

Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—

“Clark?”

His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Golly.

He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.

You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”

A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”

Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.

Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.

“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”

Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”

He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”

“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.

A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?

Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.

“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”

“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”

“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”

“You’re right. They look good together.”

“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”

“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”

“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”

His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”

“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”

“I’m no better. Want proof?”

“Go on.”

“Why are colds bad criminals?”

You lift your brows. “Why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”

“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.

“And lie to you? Never.”

“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”

“… Which is?”

“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”

You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.

Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”

He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”

At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.

Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”

“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.

“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”

His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”

“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”

That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”

You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”

His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”

You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”

“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”

“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”

In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?

“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”

There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.

It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.

You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.

“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”

He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.

But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?

Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.

Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.

He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”

“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”

“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”

Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”

His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”

“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.

“I manage just fine.”

“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”

Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.

His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”

While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:

You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.

He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.

As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.

When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.

The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.

“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”

His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”

A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.

He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.

“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.

The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”

“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”

You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”

“I will.”

Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.

You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.

God, he’s already in so deep.

You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”

You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.

He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.

Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”

“Sorry, I just—”

“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”

He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”

You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”

Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.

“I need all the details!”

“Jimmy, I swear to God—”

“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”

Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.

“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”

Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.

“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”

“I will not be silenced.”

“You’re gross.”

“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.

Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”

“Did you kiss?”

“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.

“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”

A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”

“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.

He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”

Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.

“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”

Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.

“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”

“In my defense, she did it first.”

“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”

Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.

He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.

Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”

Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:

I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.

Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”

He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”

Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.

Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?

The typing dots appear right after.

You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?

Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.

You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.

Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.

You: Your eyes do work wonders.

Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.

You: But is your memory always this good?

Clark: Only on important occasions.

Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.

Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.

He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.

He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.

It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?

As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.

I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.

Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.

You’re kind of boring, you’re relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.

All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.

The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.

You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.

“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.

“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”

“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”

He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.

“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”

It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.

About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.

The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.

Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.

Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.

He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.

What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.

His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.

He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.

From then on, it all happens in slow motion.

Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.

The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.

Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.

There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.

And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.

Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.

The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.

All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.

He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.

In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.

Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.

He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.

His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.

Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.

When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.

Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.

He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.

From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”

Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.

“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”

“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.

Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”

“Well, I most certainly am.”

“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”

On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”

His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.

Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”

Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”

“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”

“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”

Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”

Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”

After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.

But then—

“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”

“You mean Jimmy told you.”

Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”

Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”

You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.

Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.

“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.

Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”

“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”

That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”

“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”

Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.

He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?

“What—I don’t—You’re here?”

“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”

Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”

“I was getting something for myself as well.”

“But—”

You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”

That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”

I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”

Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”

You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.

“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”

“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”

You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”

Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—

“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.

“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”

He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.

You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.

You: Hello?

You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.

You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?

You: I’m trusting my instinct.

All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.

There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.

Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.

Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.

“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”

You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”

“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”

Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.

How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?

That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.

A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.

Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.

The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.

His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.

“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.

Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.

Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.

He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”

For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.

Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.

Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.

“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair on the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”

This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.

Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.

He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.

But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.

At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.

He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.

That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.

His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.

“Hello?”

“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”

“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”

“Are you nervous?”

He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”

“You’re finally getting laid!”

Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”

“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”

“Yeah. And?”

“Well, do the math, dude!”

“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”

“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”

“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”

The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.

His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.

He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.

Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.

Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.

When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.

His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.

“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.

You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.

His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.

“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.

You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”

“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.

You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”

Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.

“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.

“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.

Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”

“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.

You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”

Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”

“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”

Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?

“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”

You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”

“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”

Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”

You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”

“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”

You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”

Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”

You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”

His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“I’m not roasting you for free!”

“I’m literally asking you to!”

“Clark—”

“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”

With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.

Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”

He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.

Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”

You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.

“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”

He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.

“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.

It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.

You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.

You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.

His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.

“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”

This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?

He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.

Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.

“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”

Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”

He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”

“You mean the library scene?”

“Yeah.”

“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”

“I had no idea there was a movie.”

“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”

There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.

Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.

“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.

His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.

Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.

As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.

Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.

Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.

He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.

The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.

His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.

He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.

He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.

The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—

Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.

His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”

Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”

“What if it’s important?”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“But what if it is?”

Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.

Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.

In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.

You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”

Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.

He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”

“Clark, it’s normal.”

“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”

“I actually feel flattered.”

Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.

Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”

His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”

“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”

“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”

That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.

There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”

“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”

“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”

He snorts. “Gosh, no.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“Trust me, it isn’t.”

“You could want to explore other connections.”

“Are we on Love Island?”

“You get what I’m trying to say.”

In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”

What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.

The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.

You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.

You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.

You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(

Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.

Clark: At least let me cook for you.

You: Nooooooo!!!

You: I don’t want you to get sick.

He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.

Clark: I won’t stay for too long.

Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.

That should be enough to soften you.

You: Alright…

When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.

The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.

Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.

“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”

Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”

You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”

“No, I’m not.”

“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”

“Turns out I’m the exception.”

His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.

“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.

Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.

Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.

“You never take them off?”

“Take what off?”

You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”

Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”

“Have you ever tried contacts?”

“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”

“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”

“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”

Another minute passes without you uttering a word.

But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”

“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”

Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”

He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”

“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”

“I know.”

“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”

“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”

“Want to call it a day?”

“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”

Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.

By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.

Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.

“Clark?”

“Tell me.”

“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”

He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?

“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”

Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.

You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”

“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”

His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”

Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”

The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”

He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.

“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”

You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.

He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”

When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.

“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.

He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

His first loss shouldn’t look like this.

As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.

All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.

Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.

He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.

The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.

All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.

Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.

“Is he dead?”

“He can’t die, you dummy.”

“My dad said he could beat him up.”

A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”

Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.

It’s a school uniform.

He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.

“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”

Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.

“But Miss—”

“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”

Oh, God. It’s definitely you.

He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.

From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.

The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…

“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”

When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”

You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.

The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.

The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.

Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.

“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”

Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.

The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.

Another ordinary day in Metropolis.

He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.

He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.

“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”

“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.

“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”

That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”

“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”

If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.

He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”

You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”

It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.

He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat.. “Stay safe.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.

When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.

You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?

Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?

Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.

“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.

Right. The party.

Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”

The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.

The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”

Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”

“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”

Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”

She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.

For a fleeting second he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.

He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.

Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat tricking down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”

It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.

Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.

But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.

Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.

The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.

When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.

And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.

It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.

At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”

Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”

He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.

The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—

But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.

Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.

“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.

He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.

With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.

He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.

He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.

He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”

You squint at him. “What?”

“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”

That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”

His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”

“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”

He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—

Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.

Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”

Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”

“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”

Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”

“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.

You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”

“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.

He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”

“You totally do.”

“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”

Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”

“I’m not—”

“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.

You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”

“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.

“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”

Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.

Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”

“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”

“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”

“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.

“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”

A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.

At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”

Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”

“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”

“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”

“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”

As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”

Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.

The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”

You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”

“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”

10…

“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”

9…

He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”

8…

He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.

7…

You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”

6…

“—over Superman?”

5…

“Clark, will you please look at me?”

4…

He does, but stays silent.

3…

“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”

2…

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”

1…

The look on your face is beyond devastating.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!

The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.

When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.

Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.

Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.

Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”

“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”

Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.

“Wait!” he shouts.

You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.

“Let me walk you.”

It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.

You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”

“Please, let me.”

“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”

He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”

You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.

When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.

A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.

The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.

“What was that back in the bar?”

The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.

Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.

“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.

“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”

In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.

But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.

“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”

Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.

“Even still, you won’t look at me.”

He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.

You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”

There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”

A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”

“Yes. I asked him.”

“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”

“What are you implying?”

“Does he pay you for the interviews?”

The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”

“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”

“He’s not a bad person.”

“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”

“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”

“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”

“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.

You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.

“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”

Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?

You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”

It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?

His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.

“Holy fuck.”

It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.

You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.

“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”

“Please, don’t freak out.”

“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”

“I know.”

“I’m not drunk,” you insist.

“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.

Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”

He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”

You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”

“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”

You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”

Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.

He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”

“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”

“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”

“Clark, I swear—”

“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”

Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.

“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”

His voice softens, almost breaking.

“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”

He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.

“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”

“I don’t want that.”

Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”

“I said I don’t want you to go.”

He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”

You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”

“I seriously don’t understand—“

“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”

“Even after all this?”

“I guess I’m really stubborn.”

“So… you don’t want me to go?”

“No.”

“You don’t hate me?”

You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”

“You don’t hate… Superman?”

“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”

Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.

“You know what I would hate?”

“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.

“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”

He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”

“Impossible.”

“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”

“Please, tell me.”

“You’re gonna make fun of me.”

You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”

For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.

“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”

You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”

He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”

“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”

“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”

“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”

“Sort of.”

“Is not touching me one of them?”

“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.

“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”

Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”

You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”

“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”

“How interesting.”

His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”

Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if someone’s as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”

A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”

“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”

Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.

And suddenly, he has a goal.

This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.

Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.

It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.

Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.

RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.

Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.

The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.

He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.

But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”

Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”

You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.

Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.

No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.

His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”

Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.

He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.

One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.

His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”

You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.

You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.

“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.

He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.

“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”

He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.

You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”

Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.

“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”

He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.

When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”

He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.

So instead, he drops to his knees.

Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.

He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”

“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”

You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.

“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”

Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.

“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.

“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”

Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.

As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.

With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.

He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.

You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.

He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.

Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”

“Yeah?”

You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.

“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”

His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.

Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”

“Yeah? Who is it?”

The answer is simple. “You.”

You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”

He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”

“Just… say it however it comes.”

“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”

You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”

“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”

You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”

He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.

“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”

Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.

The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.

You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”

Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.

“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”

“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”

His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.

As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.

The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.

His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.

That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.

“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.

And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—

The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.

Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.

For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.

Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.

He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.

At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.

Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—

“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”

“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.

“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”

He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”

“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”

He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.

Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.

The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.

“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”

With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.

Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.

“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”

He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”

His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.

You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.

“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”

“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”

And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.

His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.

Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.

He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.

Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”

“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”

You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.

But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.

After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”

“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”

He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.

You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”

No answer. Just pure silence.

You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”

He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.

“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”

He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.

You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.

“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”

Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”

This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.

He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.

His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”

His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.

“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.

“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”

Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.

The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.

“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.

“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”

You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.

He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.

To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.

Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.

Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.

Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”

“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”

You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.

You’re writing the same letters, over and over.

I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.

“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”

“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”

He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”

“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”

“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”

The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.

Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.

What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.

Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.

singer!choso steps onstage, his voice carrying a new song about love and loss. you hit the runway, and his eyes find you immediately, intense and unblinking. the crowd senses the connection—cameras catch you hesitating for a moment, his voice faltering on, “thought you were gone.” and social media eats it up.

singer!choso tracks you down backstage, still sweaty from the stage. you’re in heels and diamonds, catching your breath. “y/n,” he says, voice low, “you’re still stunning.”

singer!choso follows you to your hotel, paparazzi snapping grainy photos. you say it’s “just to talk,” but he’s kissing you at the door, desperate, “i missed you so much.” you tug his shirt off, “need you now.” clothes fall fast, and you’re tangled in bed, bodies pressed close.

singer!choso drops to his knees, eyes glistening, “let me make you feel good.” his tongue moves deep, moaning, “you taste so good.” you grab his hair, gasping, and he’s crying, “thought i’d never have you.” he keeps going until you cum, trembling, his tears mixing with your release as he kisses your thighs.

singer!choso is aching, breathing hard, “your turn, baby.” he guides you to suck him, “fuck, just like that.” tears fall as you take him deep, his voice shaky, “you’re so pretty—wanted this for years.” he praises you, “love you, always,” and cums hard, sobbing, gripping your hair gently.

singer!choso pulls you close, tears still wet, “everything’s been hollow since you left. fame doesn’t mean shit without you.” you stroke his hair, “i missed you too—didn’t realize how much.” he holds you tight, “you’re my everything.”

singer!choso who lays you back, “i need you—need to feel you.” slides in slow, tears in his eyes, “fuck, you’re perfect.” he fucks you deep, voice breaking, “you’re mine, right? say it.” you moan, “yours, choso.” he’s sobbing, “love you—always will,” moving with desperate need, holding you like you’ll vanish.

singer!choso who picks up speed, hands gripping your hips, “can’t stop—need you too much.” he’s possessive, “nobody else gets you—only me.” you nod, “only you,” and he’s wrecked, “gonna fuck you ‘til you’re mine forever.” tears stream down his face, “thought i lost you—never again.”

singer!choso who is close, voice trembling, “gonna cum—can i stay inside?” you nod, and he’s sobbing, “fuck, you’re mine.” thrusts hard until you both cum, him spilling deep, “take it—love you.” he collapses, tears soaking your skin, whispering, “don’t leave me again.”

singer!choso who holds you close, still emotional, “every song was about you—couldn’t let go.” you murmur, “i’m here now.” he kisses you softly, “just don’t go.” you fall asleep in his arms, his warmth wrapping around you, both of you finally at peace, even if just for now.

singer!choso who wakes to chaos—twitter’s buzzing: “choso and y/n reunion at vs show?!” paparazzi photos of you leaving the hotel are everywhere. headlines speculate, “exes back together?” fans scream, “the songs were her!” your team pushes you to deny it, but choso posts a lyric, “found my heart.” it’s clearly you <3