ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.

You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.

“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.

“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“

“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“

“Then go ask Lois!”

“Lois is in Gotham, I can’t ask Lois-“

“Then ask Clark, he’ll be happy to smell me-“

“I can’t ask Clark.” You’d whined. “Come on, please smell me-“

Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘

“It’s not a mating dance!”

“It seems like a mating dance-“

“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”

Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.

You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.

“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“

You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.

He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.

His eyes are black, and gleaming.

You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.

Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.

You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.

“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”

Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.

Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.

But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.

He looks dangerous.

And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.

But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.

“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”

Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“

Clark looks at you.

And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.

“You smell good.” He mutters.

He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.

“What the fuck is up with him?”

Nobody seems to be sure.

On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.

“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.

“There are no other words I could use, though-“

“Corrupt?”

“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”

You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.

“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.

“Dogshit.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“

“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“

“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Because I had a source.”

“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.

You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.

“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“

“Shut up, I’m excited-“

“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.

He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.

Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.

You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.

And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.

Today you keep it under control.

It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.

“It’s- Uh- Superman.”

You blink. “What?”

“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”

“I- You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“I can find someone else-“

“No, I- I’ve got it.”

He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.

You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.

But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.

You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”

He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.

Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.

He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.

He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.

And you have no idea what to do.

Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.

He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.

You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.

And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.

“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”

His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.

“Clark-“

“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”

You blink. “Back up?”

He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.

He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.

But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.

You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.

He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.

“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“

“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.

“You’re sick-“

“No. I’m not.”

“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”

He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.

“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”

That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.

His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.

And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.

It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.

The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.

But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.

“Clark- Please-“

He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.

“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”

You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.

And you look back. You can’t help it.

But all he does is stare at you.

So you walk away.

Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.

“Is he-“

“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”

You frown. “But-“

“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“

Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.

“Don’t go visit him.”

You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“

“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”

“But-“

“Don’t.”

“What if he needs something-“

“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”

“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”

Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Lois-“

“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”

She walks away without another word.

On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.

You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.

Don’t.

His door is right there.

Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.

Don’t.

You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.

But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.

You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.

Don’t.

But you want to.

Don’t.

He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-

Don’t.

Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.

And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.

He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.

You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.

Before Clark can open it, you walk away.

On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.

It’s a  distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-

You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.

This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.

It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.

He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.

He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.

Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.

You miss him.

Goddamnit.

Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.

You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.

He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this  sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.

You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.

You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.

Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.

But why is he home visiting you.

Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.

You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.

“Hello?”

Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.

He doesn’t look well.

Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-

Like Clark.

Just like Clark.

And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s  worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.

Or something else.

Without the glasses, there’s something else.

He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.

He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.

“Clark?”

“I’m here for your interview-“

You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.

His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.

“Clark- Wait-“

Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.

At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.

You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.

He’s burning at 150 degrees.

He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.

The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.

You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.

Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.

That time it was definitely your name.

Superman moaned your name.

You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.

Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.

It does nothing for hearing him.

And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.

It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.

Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-

Oh.

That’s… Big.

You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.

The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.

You still haven’t really dealt with that.

Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.  

And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.

To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.

When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.

You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.

Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.

Dear lord.

Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.

You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.

Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.

He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.

You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.

Clark is Superman,

And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.

His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.

“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.

This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-

You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.

He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-

No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.

But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.

The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.

If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.

And you’re not that strong at all.

Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.

You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.

When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.

He’s naked.

Fully naked.

And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.

He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.

But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.

And his cock. 

You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.

Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.

“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“

“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”

He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of  release on his thigh. He’d been humping  the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-

“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”

“Clark-“

“Stop saying it like that.”

You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.

His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.

“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”

Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.

“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”

You laugh softly, despite everything.

Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.

“Don’t laugh either.”

“I- I’m sorry-“

“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“

He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.

“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”

“No- That- That’s weird-“

“Kal-El?”

“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.

“I need to be able to call you something.”

“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”

That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.

“No, not- Not like that-“

“Not like what-“

“It’s just, when you talk-“

“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.

It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.

“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.

“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”

“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“

“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”

He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”

“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“

“You said I shouldn’t talk.”

“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.

“You better fix the wall, Kent.”

“I will. ‘M sorry-“

“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”

You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.

“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”

 That’s not  promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.  

“You know kryptonite?”

You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”

“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“

“Clark.”

“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.

“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.

His cock twitches. You try not think about it.

“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“

“It what-“

“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”

He trails off, words hanging in the air.

Saw you.

You activated the red kryptonite in him.

There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.

“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.

Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.

“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.

“Please don’t make me say it.”

You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.

“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“

“Can’t you?”

Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.

And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.

“You- You can’t mean that-“

“Why not?”

You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.

“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.

“You don’t have to pity me-“

“It’s not pity.”

He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“

“Who says it’s not how I feel?”

You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.

“Uhh… Steve?”

You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”

Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.

You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.

“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.

You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”

His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.

“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”

“No, you-“

“Don’t tell me what I feel.”

He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.

“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”

He nods, tight and controlled.

You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.

Not with fear.

With excitement.

“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”

And Clark snaps.

He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.

Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.

If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.

But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.

He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.

There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as  he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.

You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.

You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.

He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.

“Clark-“

“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“

He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.

“Smell so good.” He almost  whines. “So good.”

You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.

Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.

It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.

“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“

“You- You can’t-“

“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“

“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.

You don’t mind at all.

“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.

“We talked about this-“

“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.

You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.

And you feel it.

The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.

Oh.

Right.

Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.

“I need to get you ready.”

You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“

Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”

“How do you know-“

“Nose.”

“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“

“Not enough.”

He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.

“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.

That’s his agreement hum.

Your jaw drops.

“Are you serious-“

“I can’t help it.”

“You- You could wear nose plugs-“

“No. Like it too much.”

Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.

“You- Can’t move-“

“You should move-“

“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”

You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.

“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”

Clark grunts. You smile at the air.

“You came in bed last night.”

He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”

“About who?”

You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”

And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.

“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”

“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.

“Yeah? Like what?”

Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.

“A brat.”

A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.

And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.

“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.

Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.

“You- You can’t just say that-“

“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.

“Can you please look at me-“

“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.

“Clark-“

“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.

You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.

“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”

“I- I need to get you-“

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.

Enough.

You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.

“Sorry-“

“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”

He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.

You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.

The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.

He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.

You add a second, and squeeze at the base.

Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.

“Be- Be careful.”

You pause. “Does it not feel-“

“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“

Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.

You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.

And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.

You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.

Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.

“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“

He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.

You want to taste him.

When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.

“What- What are you-“

You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.

The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.

There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.

You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“

You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.

It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.

“Are you-“

You moan, and Clark gives in.

He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.

“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“

Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.

“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“

You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.

And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-

Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.

He’s cumming.

And he’s not stopping.

Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.

Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.

“If you-“

“Do that inside me.”

You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.

“I- I mean- Clark-“

He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.

“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”

His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.

“Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”

Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.

“Oh- Oh god-“

“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”

You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.

“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”

He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.

“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.

You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.

He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“

You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.

Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.

Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.

You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.

You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.

There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.

It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.

“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”

His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.

“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.

Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.

“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”

Well. If he needs it.

It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.

“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“

“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”

It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.

You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.

“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.

He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.

“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”

And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.

“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“

“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.

Clark hears it.

“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”

You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.

Maybe Clark could let you live with him.

Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.

Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.

That’s a good plan. The best plan.

There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.

“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.

You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.

“Don’t do that.”

Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.

He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.

“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.

You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.

He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.

Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.

He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.

His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.

You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.

Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.

“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.

“I liked it.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”

Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.

And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.

He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.

“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”

You nod. It’s all you can manage.

He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.

“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“

He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.

Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.

“Big.”

He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.

“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“

You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.

“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.

“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”

You blink, and his eyes widen.

“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“

Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.

“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.

Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.

“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”

Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.

“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.

Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.

You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.

He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.

Safe and attended to.

You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.

It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.

“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“

He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.

Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.

He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.

Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.

It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.

Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.

Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.

And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.

Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.

Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.

You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.

There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.

Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.

You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.

He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.

It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.

If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.

On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.

There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.

Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.

It’s an oddly romantic thought.

There are lots of those to go around.

Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.

“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.

“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”

“See it-“

“X-ray vision.”

“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.

Clark bows his head, almost in shame.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.

You shake your head. “It fine-“

“I wanted to-“

“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”

He blinks at you, then relaxes.

“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.

“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”

Clark laughs at that, and you beam.

It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.

“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.

“I-“

“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”

He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”

You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.

“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“

“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“

Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”

You laugh. “Bring it on.”

✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦

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a car comes into the lot and its a chance as he turns his head. you’re not stupid to think you can sneak up on him but he’s told you about the fucking cold he hates, dulling his senses and whatnot.

you’re not successful but in hurried steps you’re tackling him lightly, earning a chuckle combined with a groan.

“—fuck.”

you melt into him, circle his waist from under his open jacket and kiss the spot of where his heart is before he’s talking again.

“i said to stay inside.” he mutters no longer rigid, and lays his cheek on a side of your head. you’re wrapped in his jacket before you know, deep in his warmth before you can say.

“came to give you some love; you look lonely.”

he hums while he rocks with you feebly in place. “sounds like something a villain would say.”

you stick your tongue at him. “that’s exactly what this is. i’m here to avenge myself.”

“oh shit,” he mutters, glancing at the numbers on screen. he thinks about the promise he sealed with a kiss in the car last—the one where he would come back bearing chocolate in exchange that you stay in the car. you nuzzle further into him as the first snow of the year falls. it's crisp, coming down light as feather.

katsuki goes quiet. really quiet.

you feel it in the way his chest rises deeper beneath your cheek, in the way his hand spreads over your back like he’s trying to keep every part of you close at once. the cold turns the tips of his ears red but he stays there anyway, lets snow gather over his shoulders while you're impossibly close.

“baby,” he murmurs after a second, his voice roughened by the cold.

you hum.

“look at me.”

you tilt your head up slowly and immediately regret it because his expression makes your stomach flip. softened in that way he only gets when nobody’s around to see it. eyes heavy on yours while snow catches in his lashes.

his thumb brushes under your eye, slow. “there.”

“what?” you smile a little.

“couldn’t see your face.”

your heart hurts stupidly over something so small.

katsuki kisses you slow.

it’s the kind that steals thought from your head immediately. warm despite the cold biting at your cheeks. his hand settles at the side of your neck while yours bunch tighter into his hoodie.

he groans softly when you kiss him back harder, then he deepens it without hesitation, mouth lingering against yours until you’re dizzy enough to forget where you are completely.

the pump clicks. neither of you move.

another second passes before he breaks away just enough to breathe. forehead pressed to yours, lips still brushing yours when he talks.

“you’re trouble.”

“you like me.”

When you open your window to let Mark inside, he’s already talking. His apologies and his excuses run together, your name discernable every few words.

“Mark,” you call, leaning back on your bed. “Did you get lost on the way over here again?”

He tenses, then exhales when he sees your smile. “Maybe,” he admits softly.

“Where were you coming from?”

“Uh, somewhere that started with a C or a K.” He nods once, then adds, “It was hot.”

“How did you pass any geography class?” you wonder.

“It- it’s not that bad.” He moves toward you, running his fingers along your arm as he looks down at you. “I mean, I’m not helpless.”

“Mark, sweetheart, you know I like you, but you can’t even tell me what continent you were on,” you murmur, lifting a hand to capture his. “Luckily, I’m not in this purely for your directional capabilities.”

Mark hums, watching you trace his fingers. He swallows, fails to speak twice, then asks, “Why are you in this?”

You sigh, tugging his arm gently. “You’re so cute.”

“Thanks.”

Laughing, you stand, keeping your hand in Mark’s. “What are we doing? You’re late enough that pretty much everything is closed, but we can watch a movie or order something.”

“Sorry,” he offers. “I could go get something?”

“You don’t have to make up for being late with authentic foreign cuisine,” you remind him. “You’ll be late, I get it. Saving the world takes precedence over rewatching Magnum P.I.”

Mark narrows his eyes, his fingers tightening around your palms. “You started without me,” he accuses.

You don’t bother denying it, pressing a kiss to his chin before you say, “Just one episode.”

“You mean the two-part premiere?”

“Okay, two episodes. You went to Hawaii last month and didn’t even bring me back a shell.”

Mark considers your argument, then tips his head and fixes those irresistible brown eyes on you. “Even?” he asks.

“Even.”

Mark leads you to your living room, more comfortable in your space than you thought he would be. The first time he came over, he kept his hands in his pockets and looked like he thought you were going to dump him every time he took a breath.

“You never answered the question,” Mark remembers as he opens the fridge.

“Because you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own,” you murmur.

Mark gives you a look that makes you second guess if that’s true.

For all the little kisses you’ve given Mark, he’s never kissed you back. He’ll trail off mid-sentence when you kiss his jaw, freeze when your lips find his bicep, and hide against you when you kiss him in public. Though you can’t decipher whether or not it’s because the affection is too much for him or if he’s holding himself back from taking something more, you enjoy it.

“Mark,” you begin, flipping through his back issues of Science Dog.

“Yes?” he asks, scrolling in search of a movie William recommended.

“Are you happy?”

Mark drops the remote, unflinching when it crashes to the floor. He turns toward you, staring at your back.

“Uh,” he mumbles. “That depends on what you say next.”

“No, not like that,” you explain, still looking away from him. “It’s just. We hang out all the time, and you- you get me. But you never... you know.”

You shrug as you say you know, and Mark’s mind goes into overdrive. His eyes trace your body while he tries to determine what exactly he is supposed to know.

“If you want me to stop, just tell me, Mark,” you continue. “I’ll understand.”

“Stop what?” he questions softly.

Sighing, you close the comic you’d been perusing and move to Mark’s side. “The affection,” you respond. “Say the word, and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

“No!” Mark exclaims, reaching out for you. He catches your arm and pulls you forward to stand between his legs. “I don’t want that.”

“Okay,” you soothe. “You never initiate anything, so I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t pushing you.”

Mark tips his chin up, his eyes glassy and round as his thumb traces circles against your arms. He drops his hand, tracing your veins like he’s trying to get absorbed into your bloodstream. You soften when he blinks slowly, his eyes one of your many weaknesses.

“I’m scared,” he whispers. “I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you assure him, inching closer. “I trust you, Mark.”

He shakes his head, arguing, “I don’t know my own strength sometimes and when- when I get emotional, it’s so hard to control everything.”

After lifting your free hand, you push your fingers through Mark’s hair. “I trust you,” you repeat.

Mark closes his eyes and leans forward until his head is against your stomach. He sighs, shuddering when he exhales. “You smell good,” he says against you.

“Thanks,” you reply through a laugh. “Did you find the movie?”

“I… got distracted.”

He wraps his arms around your hips, and you get distracted too.

You’re waiting at Mark’s back door, absentmindedly examining your nails. A strong gust of wind draws your attention upward to Invincible, who has a broken goggle revealing one of his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes.

Pushing to your feet, you smile and wave a hand. “It’s fine. I ordered pizza like five minutes ago, so it’ll be here soon.”

Mark nods, dragging his fingers across your back as he unlocks the door and lets you in. You drop your bag behind the door and exchange your shoes for the Science Dog slippers Mark claimed to have ‘accidentally ordered in the wrong size,’ though you’re fairly certain he got them for you.

“I’ll be right back,” Mark says. He returns less than fifteen seconds later looking far softer than when he arrived. “Thanks for getting dinner.”

“I think I’m going to make you give me a manicure as payment,” you muse.

“Sure,” Mark agrees without hesitation.

You hum, dropping your elbows to the counter. “I’m thinking something artsy and unique. Maybe yellow and blue.”

“That’d look nice,” Mark agrees, watching your lips.

“You know, as my boyfriend, you have certain privileges.”

Mark blinks rapidly, then meets your gaze. His head tips to the side like a confused puppy before he inquires, “What?”

You take two steps forward, close enough that you can see his individual eyelashes. “Kiss me.”

“Yes,” Mark responds quickly, nodding as his hands flex at your sides. “Absolutely, I do want to do that. Uh, where? Like- like a friendly, on the cheek thing or-”

“Oh my gosh,” you breathe out before cupping both sides of his jaw and kissing him.

Mark’s eyes snap closed the moment your lips meet his, his arms winding around your waist to pull you flush against him. He takes control quickly, moving against you like he’s an expert in you despite never having been here before. It’s unfair really.

When you separate, you panting for air and Mark smiling like he just discovered his new favorite thing, you realize that Mark may not have been completely unfounded in his worries about losing control while kissing you. Your legs have turned to jelly, your mind gone fuzzy. Mark says something, so you nod, but you’re only thinking of how perfect he is. Mark steps around you, then returns with the pizza you ordered.

“You can do that whenever you want,” you tell Mark. “And you’re still doing my nails.”

Mark smiles, murmuring, “Okay.”

Strolling through the comic bookstore, you scan the shelves for something Mark might enjoy. The bell over the door chimes behind you, prompting the man at the counter to greet the new customer. You step closer to a display, tapping the spine of a compendium.

Before you can decide if it’s worth looking at, someone wraps their arms around your waist and presses their chest to your back. Their lips find your neck, pressing a long kiss below your ear before brushing over the point where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Mark,” you breathe out, leaning into him as your eyes close.

He says your name, matching your tone, and asks, “What are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” you reply, your voice soft as you press your weight into him. “You’re getting too good at that.”

Mark laughs against your shoulder, then reminds you, “Boyfriend privileges.”

It took Mark less than a month to find your weakest spots. Now that he trusts himself to be affectionate toward you, he knows exactly where to kiss, how to hold you, what to whisper, to make you unravel in his hands. Hence, why you’ve made efforts to remind him that you held that power first.

“That’s a dumb hero name,” you grumble. “Why would you just add man to the end?”

Mark doesn’t look up from your arm to agree, “Exactly!”

You shift, pressing your chest to his side and spreading your hand over his chest. He takes a deep breath, then wraps an arm around your waist to keep you close. When you kiss his jaw, he swallows.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?” he answers, dropping his chin to see you.

“I love you.”

Mark doesn’t give you a chance to see his reaction. Instead, he pulls you upward to lay on top of him, holds your chin, and kisses you. You hum into the kiss, holding his shoulders.

“We should go somewhere,” he suggests. “Let’s go get dessert.”

You’ve yet to go on a long flight with him, yet you smile and nod. “What were you thinking? Crème Brule? Macarons?”

“Both,” he answers, standing without releasing you. He moves toward the door, then slows. “Uh… where can we get that?”

You drop your forehead against his shoulder and groan, then laugh. “France, mon amour.”

Mark nods, though you know he has no idea where France is. You’ll have to tell him to fly until he sees the Eiffel Tower — but not the one in Vegas. He’s made that mistake once before, and his dad was ready and willing to tell the story regardless of Mark’s embarrassment.

“You going to talk like that the whole time?” Mark questions.

“In French?” you clarify. “Doubtful. Why, you like it?”

There’s a subtle shift of his thighs under yours as he muses over your question.

“You don’t have to, “ You assure him, setting your arms over his shoulder. “This all must be… a lot.”

If he’s more comfortable covered, you’re content with that. The expectation to bear oneself in such a way is new for Satoru. Self-imposed expectations, you’re almost sure will crush him as they have before.

You truly want nothing but him, in whatever way he allows you close. If he lets you close.

It’s only the second time you’d been perched in his lap like this, the second time his infinity has been lowered for the sake of intimacy. You wonder, quietly, how long it’s been since he’s shared the heat of human touch. You consider yourself lucky to have the opportunity to know the feel and firmness of his skin. You get to be close to him. It’s such a novel thing, really, but it feels a bit sacred with him.

(The dance prior had been a rite. A ritual to open a space between the two of you, one that could be inhabited by both of you. It was a careful back and forth, smoldering embers and climbing flames that stretched with crooning words and easily seen through lies.)

(You are a good dancer, and you reap a god for it.)

“Nah, it’s fine,” Satoru’s pinched expression falls away. He’s still strained, feigning, as he pulls the silk away from his eyes and over the top of his head. Gossamer hair falls flat, laying gently over his forehead and just barely covering his undercut. You don’t meet his gaze yet. You instead inspect the curve of his jaw to his ear, tracing a fingertip over the bone.

He’s beautiful, you think.

Before you’d met Gojo, you’d heard him described as such. An earthen god with beauty to match it. Atrocious personality, but nice to look at. The rumors weren’t… wrong. Satoru found a way to be both cloying and avoidant while remaining one of the most breathtaking people you’d ever seen. The high praise he receives isn’t in jest.

You adore him, you think. You can’t ever let him know— not to your feeling’s true extent. He’d never let you live it down.

His palm, large and warm, cups your chin and turns you toward him. He knocks his forehead against yours. It’s a bit clammy.

(A spark of pride warms your belly. His infinity has only been off for a few minutes. The room is temperate. The sheen on his forehead is from him reacting to you. Getting a rise, even if only bodily, from Gojo Satoru is exhilarating.)

But Gojo knows exhilarating, doesn’t he? He knows combat and strife, but it’s tenderness that's foreign to him.

If you were in his place, you may have broken a sweat too.

You keep your eyes lowered. You can feel him, looking into and through you. You’re still fully clothed, not bare in the slightest, but Satoru still strips you in a way beyond cloth. The only skin-to-skin contact you have is through your light touches around his neck and the point where your foreheads meet. 

It still feels like a lot.

“You can touch me more, ‘ya know,” Satoru prods you, grabbing your wrist and placing your hand on the back of his neck. “I like when you do. Have you done this before?”

You sniffle a snort, “You’re toying with me now? Getting impatient?” 

Satoru hums, and shrugs, “With you? I always am.”

Oh, god, what an admission. To be wanted in such a way by anyone, let alone Gojo. It makes your gut twist with something equally sweet and sour. There’s something to it— you’re not used to it. You’re not used to it. You’re not used to accepting someone’s desire for you. To be perched in someone’s lap, someone you equally desire? Feels like a new experience, even if you had been in this position at some other point.

“Needy,” You grin, and finally look at him.

Satoru, you realize, hasn’t taken his eyes off you. You’re not sure what he’s seeing (the way your cursed energy is melting in pools, the rapid beat of your heart, the tremor in your hands—), but you assume it’s all. You’re at his mercy, in that way. There’s nothing you can hide from him and it's daunting. You’re at such a disadvantage in knowing, but it’s familiar. 

Satoru’s pretty. Especially pretty in his face. Everyone talks about Gojo Satoru’s fabled crystalline eyes, but they really don’t do it justice. You don’t want to stare too much, but it’s the first up-close look you’ve gotten at him, and you’re enraptured. For most of your trysts, Gojo kept his blindfold on for ease. You were never afforded the chance to ogle. His eyes cut, blue topaz, set in a human skull. You swear they refract light from the inside. 

“Go on, stare some more,” Satoru grins, sitting back against the cushions. “I’ve got all day.”

You raise an eyebrow, sitting back on your haunches in his lap, balancing with a hand on his chest, “I’m happy to. You’re beautiful.”

Satoru whistles, “Buttering me up? You’re sweet.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” You say with no edge. You flash him a smile. “You knew that already. You couldn’t keep your size ego without knowing you’re stunning.”

Satoru doesn’t reply for a moment. He licks his lips, chews on the bottom one for a moment. You almost open your mouth to redact a word or two. You are being presumptuous, and perhaps a bit mean. Who knows, maybe Satoru actually has no idea—

“It’s different, since it’s you,” Satoru says, settling his big hand on one of your hips. 

There’s a wealth of unspoken secrets in such a phrase. Satoru’s built too guarded to show you them, and you half-doubt he ever will. You’ll have to settle for your own conjecture. You’ll have to settle for the way such admission makes your heart pound. You’ll have to settle for how his words are followed by a soft squeeze of your ribs in his warm palm. 

To be special to someone, someone who seems so above such connections— it makes your insides melt down your spine.

You kiss him, to let him know you heard him. You lean forward suddenly, half-tipping over into his lap. It brings you chest to chest, where Satoru easily wraps an arm around your waist, tucking you close, holding you there without give. 

And you kiss him like you’ve wanted to for god knows how long. 

It’s not like the chaste touches you’ve had in the past. It’s nothing like the hungry looks you’ve caught Gojo flashing you from across campus. It’s neither entirely carnal, nor pure. It makes your insides, from your brain to your toes, turn to mush.

You press into him, winding a hand into his hair.

Satoru holds you steadfast. The grip he has around your waist is unwavering and keeps you chest to chest. You can feel his expand against your own, even the pounding of his heart in an earthly rhythm.

(As much as you claim to know Satoru, it still shocks you, occasionally, how human he is. His heart beats, thumps and thuds when touched like something fragile and precious. It’s endearing, in a way.)

You cup a hand over his chin and stroke your thumb against the sharp line of his jaw. You curl your nails behind his ear, and nearly die when you feel Satoru shudder beneath you. The half-moan he hums into your mouth has your thighs clenching around his own.

Satoru is nothing if not competitive, even knowing he will always win. A loss is a feint with him, and you forget this in the moment.

He breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips down your neck, deftly unbuttoning your top and sliding it down your shoulders. It settles against your biceps as Satoru lays kiss after kiss against your skin.

“You’re so,” He says, suddenly. “So—”

He cuts himself off and smothers his face into your neck. It takes you a moment to realize he’s pouting. His grip on you gets tighter, and there’s not a smidge of space between you two.

It’s overwhelming, maybe.

You’re not used to this. Your mutual lifestyle rarely left time for things like this, and when they were shared, it was quick and quiet. There simply isn’t enough time of respite for a sorcerer to be so indulgent. There are lives, people— souls left out in the cold if you’re too selfish about this. 

For that reason, you wonder if Satoru has much experience at all.

You know his history, his place, his status (even in this position, the miasmatic knowledge of such things will not leave you.) You can’t decipher whether such things would make him more or less likely to experience physical intimacy. You’ve heard rumors, sure, but you don’t think Satoru has the room in his schedule to be as much of a slut as whispers would have you believe. 

Regardless, you feel special, getting to be so close to him. You covet him too much, probably. It’s been drilled into your head since birth, so you can’t fault yourself too much. 

“You’re thinking so hard,” Satoru kisses your neck again. “Your cursed energy’s going crazy. What’s on your mind?”

You pause. 

“... You.” You answer honestly.

“Oh, wow, me? I’m flattered.” He noses up to your jaw and nips, before grabbing your face in one large hand and dragging you together again. “But, I’d prefer if you were here with me, right now. Think you can manage? I’ll make it easy.”

“I’ll try,” You say, letting Satoru kiss over cheeks. 

Satoru hums, “You will. You’ll stay here, with me.”

...

He does make it easy, notably. 

Satoru drags you close as can be and devours you— there’s no other word for it. He kisses and kisses and kisses until you feel saliva dribble from the corners of your lips. He nips at your bottom lip and tugs more than once. It hurts in a good way. It’s the kind of pain that you want more of. 

Satoru must understand, because he bites your lip and you swear he must bust it to bleeding. You nearly thank him as sparks of pain mix with heat and pleasure like its own heady drug. 

Your grapple onto his shoulders, encouraging him to shrug off his uniform top. It’s shed easily, quickly and he’s down to a tight white shirt that leaves little to the imagination. You run your hands up and down his chest, unabashedly feeling him up. Who knew Satoru was so broad? (tits) Shoulders too. Satoru towered over nearly everyone he met, but he never struck you as anything other than a beanpole.

But now? You can feel the muscle on him. You can feel it tensing and relaxing in rhythm as he massages the meat above your hips. You can feel him and how strong he is. 

It’s exhilarating. You want to drown in him.

“You’re excited,” Satoru breaks away to tease. 

You hum, kissing the corner of his mouth, “So are you.”

That much is obvious. You’ve skillfully been ignoring how hard Satoru is against your inner thigh, even through his trousers. It’s taken a fair amount of willpower to not grind in his lap senselessly. 

Satoru’s grip slips lower, cupping your ass and dragging you down against his clothed cock. He nips at your jaw, up to your ear, and dares to whisper, “I want to feel you.”

You swallow, thick and hard, and Satoru belts out a laugh. You slap his chest for it, hoping the dark of the room distracts from the heat in your cheeks. You know Satoru must notice how your hands tremble as you grab his shoulders and grind down into his lap. You bow your head, hiding in the crook of his neck and fucking take.

It’s shameless, really. 

There are still several layers of clothing between you, yet it feels like so much. Maybe you’re touch-starved, maybe you’re enthralled with the idea of Satoru Gojo and his cock being interested in you, maybe— it just feels good and you’re chasing the feelings. 

Satoru bucks his hips up while holding yours down, letting your circle and grind on him to your heart’s content. Little whines drip from his lips, huffs of breath barely loud enough for you to hear but god, you feel weak for them. The sounds meld with your own. You scratch at his shoulders, cursing under your breath.

Satoru drags you up by your scruff to kiss you, mumbling against your lips, “‘Think you soaked through your panties.”

He confirms this by slipping a hand down your front. Satoru cups your cunt, feels you, and curses under his breath. You don’t have time to process how he’s touching you more gently than you imagined, more carefully, maybe even tenderly— before he’s winding a hand in the hair at the base of your skull and hauling you back.

You’re forced to keep your back arched. You’re bare. Your shirt pools around your waist and one of the straps of your bra slips down your shoulder. It’s obscene, you feel filthy despite being covered to some degree. You’ve probably got the front of Satoru’s trousers filthy—

Satoru pulls you from your thoughts.

He cups your jaw with his free hand and runs his fingers up and down the planes of your face. Cheeks, jaw— down the bridge of your nose before pressing his thumb to your lips. 

He’s a difficult person to make eye contact with. He’s infamous for it. It’s rare anyone actually has the opportunity to meet his gaze, but even when folks do, it’s hard to meet him on his level. Satoru doesn’t need to look at you in such a way to really see you. For him, you imagine direct eye contact must be like a dance, a challenge, and a way to make people squirm under the weight of an immeasurably powerful being. 

You force yourself to look at him and find Satoru looking back at you. He’s tracing your features, up and down, taking you in a way that looks more human than any other way you’ve seen him look. 

“... You okay?” You ask, softly, words slurred by the thumb Satoru has yet to remove from your lips.

He hums, musing, before fully pressing into your mouth, down onto your tongue. You let him, and suck and nip at his thumb. 

“I’m great,” Satoru says. “Basking, a little bit.”

He has a dopey smile on his face as he switches from his thumb to his ring and forefinger. You stay relaxed as he presses further and further back to your throat. He only stops when the tips of his fingers meet soft flesh and your gag around him. 

“You’re so good,” Satoru preens, nearly pulling his fingers from your mouth, before pressing them forward once more. “You’re precious.”

He says ‘precious’ like it's endearing and demeaning, and for some reason, it turns you on even more. You whine around his fingers and struggle for friction against his lap. Satoru clicks his tongue. 

“So needy,” He grins, letting go of your hair in favor of undoing the buckle and zipper of his trouser, rubbing himself over his boxer briefs. He continues to fuck your mouth, smile getting wider when spit dribbles from the corners of your mouth and slips down your chin.

You slowly sink closer, holding yourself up by your thighs and sheer willpower. You are needy— you desperately want to be in Satoru’s lap. You want to be sitting on his cock until the sun rises and sets again. You can see in the dim light that Satoru’s bulge is not small, rather large perhaps, even against his hand. 

You swallow. The thought of stretching around Satoru’s cock’s girth has you clenching around nothing and moaning around his fingers. You get impatient.

You fumble your grip against Satoru’s chest and reach downward. You get as far as his waistband before Satoru shoos you with a laugh, giving you a particularly hard thrust to the back of your throat. You choke.

“Let me take my time,” Satoru hums. He pulls his fingers from your mouth, letting tendrils of thick drool connect from your lips to his fingers. “I want to savor this.”

And the fucking bastard shamelessly pressing his fingers into his own mouth, sucking your saliva from them while not breaking from your gaze. 

“Y-You’re a menace,” Your voice lacks any bite as you speak.

“I’m sure I am,” Satoru looks so smitten as he palms his cock, pulling at the zipper of your uniform skirt with his free hand. You wriggle out of it and it's discarded somewhere beyond your comprehension. 

Satoru uses one deft hand to finish off the buttons of your shirt, peeling it away until you’re skin and heat in his lap. You hold onto a shred of modesty in just panties and a bra. Satoru ogles you all the same, chewing his lip as he traces your figure up and down, and up and down once more. 

Despite your last two garments, you feel naked. 

You can’t help it— you feel shy, even. You wrap your arms around your middle and avert your eyes down to his chest. You can feel that Satoru’s going to say something about it, prod you for being bashful when you’re going to be open for him in moments, more than likely. You distract him by grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt, tugging until he peels it off. 

“I can’t tell if you’re eager or dreading this,” Satoru laughs, but the end of the sound is rotten. It makes something in you shrivel and twitch. “Enlighten me?”

“I...” Your voice dies in your chest and you take a shaky breath.

You grab his hands and hold them in your own.

For someone whose hands never actually touch their opponent, Satoru’s are worn. There are calluses around his fingernails. Worn, dry skin on his palms and knuckles that you run your own scarred flesh against. His hands are warm and a bit clammy, which makes him feel a little more human.

“It’s been a while,” You murmur. “It’s scary to be so bare around someone.”

You refuse to look at him for a moment. 

Satoru hums, adjusting his grip so his palms cup your own, “It is.”

Of course, Satoru gets it. 

“I want it. You—” You hiss out a breath between your teeth as Satoru’s grip trails higher, squeezing on his way. “But, I can’t shake the feeling that being so close to someone won’t result in some tragedy.”

Satoru is silent after you speak. His eyes shine glassy and glazed, fixed somewhere else beyond the room. You don’t attempt to pull him back, not yet. He keeps massaging you, hands finding purchase on your hips. 

You suppose Satoru must be familiar with this distinct feeling as well. You both deal in tragedies. Your profession demands it, and so it is. You must purge away that which is addled in suffering, you must go hand-to-hand with grime and hate and everything rotten with the world, so that there’s, perhaps, a chance for someone, somewhere to rest easier.

The thing you are closest to is tragedy. You spar with suffering and feel it in your open palms every day. 

It makes sense you’d anticipate closeness, regardless of its intention or context, as something to be wary of. Frightening, if you really got down to it. Terrified that pleasurable touch is a farce, and that the next moment you’ll be faced with your guts on the floor, and something in you wounded beyond repair. 

“Satoru?” You say his name softly, tugging his face to your chest. His cheek rests against your sternum and his warm breath fans over your skin. “You there?”

“Yeah,” He answers immediately, nuzzling into the heat of you. “You’re better with words than you give yourself credit for, probably.”

You don’t get a chance to reply or process Satoru’s confession. He startles you when he shifts his grip under your thighs and hefts you up. He stands, adjusting you, and whisks you off to a bedroom nearby.

The room you’re brought to is dimly lit, enough that the shadows obscure any of the decor. There’s only a small lamp atop a dresser that gives off the barest bit of warm light. Hardly enough to make out any of the furnishings. You have to rely on feeling as you are set on the bed with a gentle bounce, and pushed into the sheets. They’re cool and buttery beneath you. The mattress is harder than you would expect from someone with Satoru’s tastes.

Any other thought you could have is quickly chased away by Satoru. He’s up over you within moments, settling over your hips and kissing you harder than before. 

He’s handsy, feeling and squeezing anywhere he can get a hold of. No part of you is spared from the heat of his palms and strength of his grip. He’s a bit more forceful, a bit bolder, now that you’re laid out underneath him. He’s big. Broad in the shoulders and narrow in the waist and easily keeps you down and pliant.

You meet him where you can. You wind a hand into his hair, tug him closer and try to drink him. It’s a sloppy thing, messier than you’d ever admit. And you like it. The spit pooling out of the corner of your lips and the desperate little noises you exchange warm your guts in a way that feels foreign and welcome all the same.

“Satoru,” You say his name like a smothered prayer, caught between half-breaths. He outright moans when you call to him.

“Fuck, you sound so pretty saying that,” Satoru pulls away to drop his hand to your collarbone.

You run a hand down the nape of his neck, squeezing, “Your ego is showing, be careful, Satoru.”

He makes a choked sound and chomps down on your collarbone. You squeak and slap at his shoulders. Your scolding doesn’t deter him, if anything it eggs him on. His lips trail lower, deftly removing any remaining fabric as he does.

You claw at him, trying to drag him into your skin. You want to mix together, dissolve into a puddle, and never be anything but that. It’s indulgent to think about, and you can’t help the giddy sound that bursts from your lips as Satoru brushes past a particularly sensitive spot on your navel.

“That’s a cute sound,” He peaks up from his lashes, long and silver and he looks fucking angelic. You drop your head to the pillows, steeling yourself as he works. You adjust your leg over his shoulder, tucking him between your thighs and Satoru makes a contented sound that has you thrumming from the inside out.

The heat of Satoru seeps into your skin, making you pliable beneath him. Satoru lies half off the bed and his lower half slips to the floor below. He drags you by your calves. You yelp, grabbing the sheets and regarding him with wide eyes.

Even kneeling on the bed, Satoru is tall. The figure of him sends something stirring in you, some feeling that’s both intimidating and lust, rolling into something hot on the back of your tongue. Satoru tilts his head with a smile that gleams, adjusting you as he pleases. You let him, let him, let him—

He props your hips up with a pillow, leaving you off-kilter and exposed to the cold air of the room. He works off the rest of your uniform skirt, leaving your panties and knee-highs intact. Satoru seems to settle, eyeing your clothed sex with that same smile. He traces a nonsense pattern over your hips, teasing with the tip of his finger.

Blood rushes to your skull and you feel woozy with it. With him. It’s so much. You feel exposed like this. He has hardly touched your cunt, only prodded the parts he could lavish, goading you on. You should’ve met him more, he can’t—

You shoot up, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, “I’m sorry—”

Satoru pauses, raising an eyebrow and withdrawing. 

“Sorry? For what?” He retains an air of mischief to his voice, but it feels hollow. You feel a ringing start in your ears.

You’re scared.

You’re scared.

It’s too close.

You twitch. Your impulse is to grab a weapon, wind up with cursed energy, and punch. The urge claws up your chest in the form of breaths that catch in your nose too fast. Sweat beads on your forehead and you make a tiny, dying sound.

You feel Satoru’s cursed energy crackle and it makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise. You scramble upright on the bed, away, away.

It’s instinct, really.

Your heart pounds, the feeling of violence so thick in your blood that it clouds your vision. You’re nothing but a specter, why would you bother with physical pleasures? You feel foolish and you clutch at your throat.

“Woah, woah there,” Satoru puts his hand up, still kneeling. His brow creases with concern. Gone is the desire and mischief. Caring. Satoru Gojo cares about you, about the way you’re sure he can see how your body and cursed energy are spasming. You’re scared, you’re scared—

This is it, isn’t it? Why you so rarely indulge in the carnal. It tastes bitter. Its bile, rising from your gut and you have to swallow to keep from drowning in it. It’s a fear that’s so fucking hard to place, hard to verbalize, certainly to someone outside of your profession. Even to another sorcerer, you’re not entirely sure you could force yourself to put into words the tangled, horrific feeling that you can’t seem to escape in these moments.

It pulls you. Tugs you. It’s going to tear you apart—

Satoru says your name, sharp and clear, and it brings you back to the room. You’re in Satoru’s low-light bedroom, probably. The sheets are soft. Satoru smells good. There’s a dead stick of incense on a holder on the dresser.

Satoru grabs your cheeks in his hands and drags you nose to nose. You feel the heat pouring off of him.

And you look at him.

“There you are,” Satoru says with an edge of relief you’ve never heard from him. “I lost you for a sec there. Take some breaths with me, ‘kay?”

“S-Sure, yeah,” You reach for Satoru’s wrist without thinking and hold. You ground yourself on the feeling of his pulse and bone.

Satoru counts in little murmurs, coaching you through a few moments of deep breathing. The first ones wrack through you, dragging out sounds you wish you could’ve quieted. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind. He keeps your attention, expression schooled open and inviting, and doesn’t waver until you’ve settled.

“There we go, back down to earth,” Satoru lets out a sigh. Perhaps, of relief, even.

You expect Satoru to pull back and create distance in some way. The necessity for closeness has passed and there’s no reason for him to linger—

(You forget, so easily, that you’re in the exchange of desire. You’re tender in a dance of skinship that you’ve never left, not even for a moment.)

Satoru shifts, dragging you up and pressing you against his chest. You’re both so bare— you’d forgotten. The sudden amount of skin-to-skin contact, superheated and sensitive, makes you jolt. Satoru shushes you, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you flush against him.

You don’t say anything for a while. You deflate from rigid to slack over some length of time you’re too fuzzy to measure. Satoru is mostly quiet. He only hums in what you can only assume to be approval, with each chest-heaving exhale that leaves you more relaxed against him.

It’s easier to bend now. The heat of the situation has dissipated, and the post-adrenal haze makes it easy to crash. You can feel embarrassed about it later. You’re lulled by bugs that sing night songs in the estate’s courtyard, and the gurgling of the stream that cuts through the property. 

“... You know, it happens to everyone,” Satoru says nonchalantly. He hooks his chain over the top of your head. “I don’t know a single sorcerer I’ve consistently fucked who hasn’t melted down at least once.”

“... How many sorcerers is that?” You surely must validate his data, see if he’s pulling your leg out of pity.

He laughs, “Is that a roundabout way of asking for my body count? You dog.”

You snort and shake your head, “No, I’m asking seriously.”

“More than a handful, less than a dozen,” Satoru answers after a moment of thought. “It’s normal, though. I have my moments too.”

He doesn’t elaborate, just squeezes you. 

You haven’t bedded too many of your colleagues, and even when you had, you hadn’t thought too much about their potential panic (you were too busy quelling your own enough to enjoy physical release.) 

Like all things of this nature, your dance is mutual.

“Huh,” You lean up to look at him, craning your neck. “Comforting. Glad to know the strongest sorcerer in the world cries during sex sometimes.”

He gives you a look, “Hey, I never said that—”

You lean away from him, cupping your hands around your mouth, “Hey world! Did you hear that ‘World’s Strongest Sorcerer’, ‘Well-est Endow-ed’, Gojo Satoru cries during—”

He jabs at your sides and you sputter around your words.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re in for it—”

And Satoru sets upon you, your ribs and sides and tummy with the tips of his fingers in what can only be called a minor war crime. You snort and gasp between giggling fits and streams of ‘no, no— Satoruuuuu!’s. He relents, eventually. Satoru goes from tickling to petting you as you catch your breath.

“Asshole.” You huff without any bite.

 He kisses your temple, “You started it.”

“Maybe, perhaps.” You jab your elbow into his ribs. You preen at the little ‘oof’ of air Satoru lets out. Victory.

“Do you want to continue? Or is the mood totally ruined.” You ask matter-of-factly. 

You’re still shaken, just a little. But you wouldn’t mind trying again. The silliness of things worked away some of your latent tension. You’re not boneless, but you wouldn’t mind being, you know, bone in if that’s what things led to. 

“The mood’s not ruined,” Satoru squeezes your hips and you shift higher in his lap. “I’d love to see where things go, if anywhere, if you want to continue.”

You adjust, sitting up over his hips. 

“I want to try, even if we have to stop again.”

And in the low light of the bedroom, you come nose to nose with Satoru Gojo yet again. You’re level.

“Perfect, sweetheart,” and he thumbs over your bottom lip before kissing you so soft and gently, it almost cracks your chest in two.

...

Your night continues until it becomes a dawn, and then a morning. 

It’s not a seamless tryst, surely, but your stumbles and brief panics are quelled now that Satoru knows what to look for, and you’re more vigilant of the things that will send you spiraling.

(Satoru says your cursed energy begins to curl around your chest and climbs to your throat in little wisps. You avoid your middle being exposed and vulnerable.)

Satoru holds his own— very well, in more ways than one. His own hiccups in intimacy aren’t panic, like your own, but rather awe. He has moments where he looms above you, eyes glassy and almost unfocused, where you can tell he’s somewhere else. He doesn’t seem scared, just slower, more out of body than the strongest allows himself to be.

(It’s reverence, really. He touches you in those moments like you’re a sculpture at a shrine, a sacred thing to pray to.)

He takes his time. You take yours. It’s a mutual crawl, but a pleasant one. Satoru stretches you open on his fingers, one after another until you swear the fucker is prepping you to take his fucking fist and not his cock. 

(“I’m just being thorough!” There’s a playful lilt to his voice. “— Didn’t you already call me ‘well-endowed’?”)

You try on top of him, first. When Satoru finally considers you prepped ‘enough’ that you could fit his cock into your cunt, you straddle his lap, brace yourself over his navel, and try—

(He’s too big. He’s too fucking big.)

Even sinking down with the help of gravity, and the incessant need to be filled and fucked and anything other than teased, it hurts. It’s a tight fit, and you only get halfway impaled on his cock before the angle and pressure have you tipping off of his lap and away in defeat.

(Then, Satoru makes you come at least three more times— you start to lose count after that. You’re more pliable, soaked through and fucked out without even being properly filled. Satoru easily shifts you onto your stomach and lifts your hip with a pillow or two.)

When Satoru takes you like that, you know you won’t be able to walk for a half day. His rhythm starts slow, to give you time to adjust, wriggle about, and find whatever angle satisfies both your cunt and your bent spine.

(It’s good, it’s sooooo good—)

Satoru comes inside you, which is fine. Unplanned, but fine. You prepped for such a possibility prior. You’re only half-lucid when Satoru’s pace shudders, and he fucks you with a few short thrusts before spilling into your cunt. 

(You can’t remember the last time someone came inside you. Even when he pulls out, and flops next to you, you still feel full of him.)

Satoru gets clingier after that. Less wordy, less mouthy (well, in the traditional sense of the word.) He tugs you to his chest, lets his refractory period pass, before fucking you slow and hard, back to chest. 

The rest of the night passes much the same way.

You’re liquid, by the end of it. You’ve only taken a break or two, mostly to gulp down water, or sit up briefly and kinesthetically reorient yourself as the bodily force of Satoru Gojo’s fucking you rewired your brainstem, maybe. 

When there are threads of hot, gold light spilling in from his bedroom window, you’re only half aware and a quarter awake. Almost dreaming.

Later, steeped in grief, you’ll remember this morning. You’ll remember the exact hue of the sun rays, the smell and thread count of the sheets, and him— Satoru. Who looks equally as wrung out, tired, but sated. He looks content and you’ll be forever grateful you burned the image of him like this into your mind. You’ll savor in the worst of times. In your grief.

Satoru’s moving around, somewhere. Maybe in the bathroom? At some point, you’re lifted carried there yourself, and literally set on the toilet— (“You’ll thank me for this when you don’t get a UTI.”)

Satoru helps you back to bed after, now laid with fresh sheets and linens. It’s cool when you flop face first and take a whiff of whatever detergent he uses. It’s fresh, if not a bit minty. Maybe eucalyptus or tea tree? Some scent that clears your sinuses and skull enough to regard Satoru outside of a sleepy or lust-filled haze.

“Busy tomorrow, I’m assuming?” Today, you silently add. You know his answer before he speaks. 

“Yup!” There’s a hollow echo of cheer to it. “Don’t worry about that now, though. We’ll rest, and get something sweet for breakfast in a few hours.”

“... Sure, sure,” You nod into the buttery sheets. You know he’ll treat you to something decadent. 

"Mhm. Sorry. Busy," you said, offering her a soft smile, wordlessly saying I love you and you're my friend, I just don't have time tonight. "I'll come with next time."

And that's when Frank finally perked up.

He'd been standing there quietly, well, quietly for Frank, his shoulder still pressed against yours, pretending to scroll through something on his phone. But the second you mentioned not being available, his head lifted. "Go where?"

Before Samira or you could reply, Mateo settled next to Frank. "Bar," Mateo said, and he sounded so excited you could practically see him vibrating. "New place. Freshly opened."

Whitaker came along then, nodding as he walked up, as if confirming that yes, he was coming along too. He settled into a chair next to Samira.

Mateo kept talking, his hands moving as he described the place. "Cheap," he said, holding up one finger. "And big," he added another. "Like, actually big. Not one of those places that says they're big but then you show up and it's basically a closet with a bar in it." He nudged Frank's shoulder, grinning. "You should come along."

Frank was already shaking his head before Mateo even finished the sentence, his hair flopping slightly with the motion. "Can't. Got a date."

Both Whitaker and Samira's heads shot up from behind their computers, even yours snapped to your left side, your muesli bar frozen halfway to your mouth.

Stupid, wonderful, absolutely moronic Frank.

"You have a date?" Samira asked, and her voice was dripping with genuine disbelief. Not because Frank couldn't get a date, he was annoyingly handsome, and he knew it, but because Frank had never once mentioned dating anyone.

Frank met her eyes, and you could see the exact moment he realized he'd made a mistake. "Uh. Yeah," he said, and his voice cracked slightly.

"With who?" Whitaker asked, perking up in his chair.

"None of your business," Frank said, already backpedaling. His shoulder pressed harder against yours.

"You finally ask someone out?" Mateo said, grinning now. "Is it someone from here?"

Frank shot him a look.

Meanwhile, Samira tilted her head, leaning back in her chair, her smile was knowing and it made your stomach drop. "Where are you taking her?" she asked.

Frank blinked. "A restaurant," he said, clearly thinking that was a safe answer.

"Which one?" Samira asked, and her voice was too sweet. "'Cause the one on Seventh Street closes at 8." She said it like she was trying to be helpful, but you'd worked with Samira long enough to know that wasn't all.

"Yeah, I know," Frank said, and you could hear him scrambling. "We're going to the one on the other side of town."

He brushed his shoulder against yours again, a nervous habit, you realized. He'd been doing it more and more lately, whenever he felt cornered.

"That's expensive," Whitaker chipped in, ever helpful.

"Yeah, well." Frank's voice got quieter. "She's worth it."

You had to suppress a smile, because even though he was currently digging himself into a hole the size of the Grand Canyon, he'd said such a sweet thing.

Mateo and Samira met each other's eyes and a whole conversation passed between them in that single glance. "You sure you're going to make it?" Mateo asked, and there was something almost pitying in his voice now. "It's a long way until there."

"No, we'll make it," Frank said, and he sounded almost confident again. "We're both done with our shift at 7, so we'll be fine."

And that's when everyone fell silent.

"Shift?" Whitaker asked slowly, drawing the word.

Frank startled, his whole body jerking slightly against yours. He looked at Whitaker like he'd forgotten the kid was even there.

"So it is someone here," Samira said, and her grin was massive now, predatory even. She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, chin in her hands. "What department? ER? Pediatrics?"

Frank stared at her. "Uh," he said, brilliantly.

"My god," Samira continued, pretending to be shocked, one hand pressing dramatically against her chest. "Have you told HR yet?"

Frank's eyes went wide. "Of course we have," he said, and his voice was a little too fast. "Robby would kill us if we didn't." He mumbled the last part.

Samira's eyes glittered. She leaned back again, crossing her arms, and you could see her setting up for the kill shot. "How does that even work out?" she asked, and her voice was dangerously sweet again.

Her eyes randomly shot to you and you startled, nearly dropping your muesli bar.

"I mean, you both work day shift," she said, and her gaze stayed on you for just a second too long before sliding back to Frank.

Mateo let out a chuckle, finally catching on to what she was doing. His grin widened as he watched Frank squirm.

"So?" Frank said, eyebrows climbing up his forehead in genuine confusion.

"HR didn't force you to take night shift?" Mateo asked, tilting his head.

"Well, they tried," Frank said, and you could hear him relaxing slightly, thinking he was on safe ground. "But she doesn't like working nights. Says it makes her too sleepy." He shook his head, almost fond. "And they don't have her favorite muesli bar at night because Shen eats them all."

Frank kept talking, because Frank could never tell when to stop. "Now can you stop?" he asked, finally sounding annoyed. "Can't even have a little privacy around here." He shook his head, turning slightly to look at the others and then he saw everyone staring. At you.

You were standing there with your muesli bar, frozen mid bite, as you glared at him.

"Seriously?" you sighed.

His face cycled through about five different expressions in three seconds, confusion, realization, horror, guilt, more horror, the dawning understanding that he had just outed both of you in front of your friends.

You sighed again and dropped the muesli bar from your mouth. You turned to the three people staring at you with open mouths. Mateo's jaw had actually dropped, Whitaker looked like someone had just told him Santa wasn't real and Samira was grinning widely, mostly proud of herself for being the one to expose you

"Yes," you said, and your voice was steady even though your heart was pounding. "We're going on a date. No, it's not our first. Yes, we're dating."

You smiled awkwardly, because what else could you do, grabbed Frank's arm, and left quickly.

You feel him scooch closer to you, the warmth rippling off his body calling to you like a siren song. It's hard, but you do not lean into him; you won't give him the satisfaction.

Then you realize Gojo has gone silent and in your experience that is never a good sign. You don't say anything. You don't budge.

Everything is completely still.

And then it's not.

Your entire body tenses up when you feel Gojo's hand at your back, sliding your shirt up as high as your stillness will allow. He cannot seriously be—

The bed groans as Gojo moves closer, his hand keeping your shirt secure as he approaches you. A shiver wracks your entire body when you feel the searing heat of his lips against your skin. You try not to move, try not to show that his actions are having an immediate effect.

He pulls away for a split second before going for another one, kissing a spot just beneath the first one. Gojo's other hand finds your waist, his fingers gripping you tightly, almost desperately, as he presses his mouth to your skin again.

With each kiss he moves lower and lower and lower still.

Your heart is beating wildly in your chest. It's so hard to stay still, but you must, you must, you must.

And then Gojo's mouth kisses the band of your pajama bottoms. He drags the hand on your waist down to your hip, fingertips dancing over the section of skin just above your pants. He traces the edge of them, before his fingers slide under to—

You can't take it any more.

You start to roll away but he's faster, grabbing you and flipping you around so that you're facing him. Gojo's legs tangle around yours as he yanks you close, arms winding around your form, trapping you in.

"Dammit!" you hiss.

"Got you now!" he gloats, cheeky, every bit of sensuality abandoned and thrown to the wayside now that he’s got you in his grasp.

Defiant, you flail around, trying to free yourself but it only results in Gojo's grip going tighter and eventually you give up and go completely still as if that'll get him to loosen his grip.

It doesn't.

"...so, how long are you gonna play dead for?" Gojo finally asks. He sounds amused, but there's something else in his tone— faint but enough to put you on edge. There's no doubt that he's planning something.

You don't want to, but you should say something; who knows what Gojo will do if you don't. Intent on feeding him some smart-ass remark, you tilt your head up only to find you've played right into his hands.

As soon as you move, so does Gojo, closing the distance between you to press his forehead to yours, angled so his lips are just hovering over yours.

You freeze. Gojo's breath is sweet, almost intoxicating, and suddenly you are at war with yourself. Instinct bids you move in closer, hungry and desperate for a taste of him, but your mind keeps you still, knowing that he's insatiable. You'd be going for just a taste but he would be consuming you whole.

"You alive in there?" he murmurs and the phantom touch of his lips makes it hard to focus. "Or do you need me to bring you back to the land of the living?"

Yes. No. Both words, both answers duke it out on the tip of your tongue and you don't know which one will come out on top.

Does it even matter? You know the real winner here will be Satoru Gojo like always.

The thought of it burns you a little. You hate letting him win and that's enough to give one side the edge it needs. "No."

He chuckles and you can tell he's not surprised in the slightest. "Oh yeah? Prove it."

You know what he's trying to get you to do, in fact he couldn't be more obvious. Truthfully, there's a part of you that wants it too—to feel his lips on yours, on you, breaths mingling as you grasp at him, fingers tangling in his hair while he tugs at your clothes, desperate for as much skin on skin contact as possible.

But there's another part of you that wants to deny him. It's the force of habit, really, the denial almost ingrained in your soul, hard-written into your body like your cursed technique. There's no reason to deny him anymore, not when you've become intimate like this and yet…

You cannot help it.

You wish you could take a third option.

(You wish you were more honest.)

There's little else you can do like this, angled and positioned for the kiss that Gojo has cornered you into. You feel his lips shift as he exhales, as if his grin is widening, as if he knows that you're realizing how inevitable the kiss is. That makes you only want to fight it more.

You just don’t know how.

“You know,” Gojo murmurs after a couple moments of silence and inaction on your part. “You’re not doing a good job at proving that you don’t need me to give you the kiss of life.”

“Shut up,” you grumble. “The fact that I’m responding should be enough for you.”

Gojo hums, making it look like he’s considering what you’ve said. You know better though, especially when he says, “...nah.”

“You are so…” you trail off as Gojo moves impossibly closer, his lips are feather light against yours and any normal person would probably consider this a kiss.

Not Gojo, though.

"So… what?" he probes. "Cool? Awesome? Irresistible?"

"None of the above."

Gojo’s arms and hands shift, his grip clearly loosening. For a split second, you consider taking the chance to see if you can free yourself from him, but you’re no fool; you know better— this is just preemptive positioning for whatever he has planned.

This is checkmate, then.

With the mission all taken care of, Gojo’s taken it upon himself to drag you around Dotonbori like you’re a couple of tourists, eating through the street food the district has to offer. You’d never admit it to him, but you don’t mind it all that much; the food in Osaka is pretty good after all. Then again, as a Kyoto school alum, you might be biased.

You look over to see what it is that’s caught Gojo’s attention and you see him pointing at a Beard Papa’s— a cream puff chain. It's nothing too special; they have locations in Tokyo too, but it's not like you should expect Gojo's indomitable sweet tooth to care.

“We should go get some!” he demands, practically pulling you by the arm toward the storefront. You know when Gojo says ‘we’ he’s really just talking about himself. It’s fine though, you’re not all that hungry after all the other things he’s convinced you to eat.

Then, the warm buttery scent of freshly baked pastries fills your nostrils and you decide that maybe you’ve got room for just one cream puff.

You wait behind Gojo as he puts his order in for some ridiculous number of mini-cream puffs, but when he’s done he turns to you and tilts his head. “What do you want?”

Stunned, you stare at him. You’d fully expected to foot the bill for your own cream puff— he hadn’t covered anything else you’d eaten today so why now all of a sudden?

Sensing your hesitation, he smiles at you, but you can’t help but be suspicious of the random act of generosity. You know he can tell because his expression quickly changes to a pout. “What’s with that face?”

“I can pay for myself,” you say.

The smile’s back now, playful and amused. “I know, but just let me treat you this once, okay?”

You frown. Still not convinced.

“Or, you can just let me order for you. That could be fun! Let’s see…” Gojo whirls around to look at the menu, his expression suddenly devious. As wary as you are concerning Gojo’s intentions here, you know it’s a dangerous play putting your fate in his hands, especially when sweets are involved. “Maybe another two dozen…”

You absolutely cannot eat that many cream puffs. Granted, Gojo probably could eat whatever you don’t, but…

“Okay, okay, I’ll order!” you relent, shooting Gojo a quick glare. As usual, he’s completely unfazed, that stupid smile back on his dumb face. “I’ll get a creme brulee cream puff.”

“Just one?” the kid at the register asks, glancing at Gojo. The sheer size of his order probably conditioned them to think you’d have the same sized appetite.

“Just one,” you echo, confirming the order.

The kid nods and Gojo moves in to pay for everything on his card. You step off to the side and not too long after Gojo joins you, a yellow box filled with his cream puffs in one hand, and a small paper pouch containing yours in the other.

“Here you go!” he says cheerfully, plopping the cream puff into your hand.

You stare down at it, still warm, and then you look at Gojo. His attention is clearly on you, expectant and waiting. “You know you didn’t have to…”

He shrugs, opening the box with his now free hand and tosses one of the cream puffs into his massive mouth. “It’s fine.”

You scowl. “I don’t want to owe you.”

Gojo stops and gapes at you, before saying, sounding completely and utterly scandalized, “Is our friendship really so transactional? I thought you liked me!”

“Shut up!” you hiss. “You know what I mean!”

“Oh… So you do like me! I knew it!”

Gojo’s selective hearing has you seeing red and it takes all your self control to not waste the cream puff he bought you by throwing it at his face. “I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t not say it.”

“Gojo…” You raise a hand and press your fingers to your temple, hoping to stave off any Gojo induced headaches.

He laughs and says, his voice light. “It’s no big deal, you know, it’s just one cream puff.”

You sigh. He does have a point. Not like he’s breaking the bank over it. “...I guess.” Pause. “Thanks.”

He grins. “You better hurry up and eat that— it tastes best when the sugar on top is still warm.”

You nod and pull the paper back to take a bite. Unlike regular cream puffs, this one is collapsed, the pastry forming something akin to a bowl where all the cream filling sits. Over the top of the cream is a layer of hardened sugar, torched so it’s dark brown and caramelized. Looking at it now, there’s no way you’re going to be able to eat this without making a mess.

“If you’re too full from everything else, I’ll gladly eat it,” Gojo teases, reaching one hand toward your cream puff, his fingers wiggling menacingly like he’s going to steal it.

“Just give me a sec!” you snap, swatting at his hand. Might as well go for it. “Thanks again.”

You shove your face into the cream puff, the sugar top crunching as you bite down. As expected, it gets messy, and even with the paper packaging, you manage to get cream on your fingers. You consider taking a second to clean them off, but now that you’ve taken a bite, the cream puff’s structural integrity is quickly failing. If you don’t finish it fast, you’re going to have a larger mess on your hands.

Literally.

Hurriedly, you shove the rest of the cream puff in your mouth, ignoring how some of the filling smears across your cheek. Once the cream puff is gone, you crumple the wrapping in one hand and inspect the other. The mess isn’t as bad as you thought and you lick the remaining cream from the pads of your fingers. It’s a bit uncouth, but it’s not like Gojo will care.

At least, that’s what you think, but when you look at him, he’s clearly gawking at you through the material of his blindfold, his hand hovering awkwardly near his mouth like he’d just tossed in a cream puff, but hadn’t moved to grab another.

Confused, you tilt your head. “Gojo?”

The sound of your voice seems to startle him out of whatever daze he’s in and reaches toward you, his voice low as he smirks, “Missed some.”

Right. Your cheek. You quickly reach up and, with your thumb, wipe the cream toward your mouth. Your tongue darts out, swiping over your thumb as it laps up the remaining cream. For good measure, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Gojo’s hand drops to his side, limp. And though you can’t see it, you just know he’s staring again. Why? And why does it look like the tips of his ears are a little pink? Could it be that he’s… blushing?

Why?

“You… okay?” you ask tentatively.

“Yeah!” Gojo replies, and you think his voice actually sounds a little strained. “Totally okay!”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely!” he insists. “In fact, I’m so okay, that I’m going to share some of my cream puffs with you. Aren’t I so nice?”

“Gojo, I don’t actually— mmph!” you start, but he won’t hear any of it. He reaches into his box and shoves a cream puff straight into your mouth. It feels like it nearly explodes on contact, the sweet vanilla flavor coating your entire tongue.

“The cream puffs from here are so good, right?” he asks, his voice louder than usual. He’s not wrong, but you don’t know how he expects you to answer; your mouth is still kind of full.

Once you swallow, you try to speak. “Gojo, really, I—”

“Here! Have another!” he says, stuffing yet another cream puff in your mouth before you can even finish your sentence.

Now, he’s just being ridiculous. You quickly chew at it until it’s small enough for you to gulp down. This time you don’t even think about tasting it. He’s got another one prepped, ready to thrust it in your mouth, but you move out of the way. “Gojo, stop. I don’t want any more.”

His hand goes completely still. Disturbingly still, you realize. Gojo’s always moving, wiggling, fidgeting, as if he’s got too much energy for his stupidly large body to handle. To see him stop moving... It’s weird. It’s almost wrong.

You don’t know what comes over you, especially when you just said you didn’t want any more, but you lean forward and wrap your mouth around the cream puff he’s holding. The corners of your lips brush against his fingers and a strange feeling runs down your spine and straight to the deepest pit of your stomach. You think of trying to swallow the cream puff whole. You think of lingering there, letting your tongue trace the shape of his fingers. You think of—

You pull away from him, refusing to look him in the face as you finish this cream puff. Once you swallow, you say, quietly. “You’re right. They’re really good.”