:3

he blushes pink at the thought. your words are enough to relight the fire licking at his groin. he watches you for a moment; tries to discern whether or not you're only saying what might please him, but ultimately nods.

you don't throat him immediately, though. instead, you duck your head down and press a few messy kisses to his balls. his hips twitch upwards at the contact, his breath hitching in his lungs. you smile, dart your tongue out to lick at the source of his hesitation.

"god, that's dirty," he groans. "you like this?"

"i like you," you hum, mouthing at his balls with spit-covered lips. you're making a mess of him, though that only gives you an excuse to suggest showering together later. "like your balls too."

"i... shit, i see that."

he's so sensitive, knitting his brows together as you suck and lick and kiss his balls with a feverish sort of worship you didn't know you had in you. his cock rests against your face, throbbing as it hardens even more. he could cum like this.

but you aren't quite done with him.

when you pull back to take his cock back into your warm mouth, all the way down to the base, kento swears he must've been a saint in his previous life to deserve such pleasures in this one. you trace the vein that tracks the underside of his length with your tongue, and then hollow your cheeks out to suck.

he cums all too-quick and with a loud and uncharacteristically whiney moan that makes you wonder how he'd sound tied up and begging. it feels almost wasteful to take his load anywhere other than deep inside of you, but you're sure you'll have plenty of opportunities for that in the near future.

he tastes good. salty. you want to keep sucking, see if you can milk him for more, but he's already overstimulated and panicking a little at the sensation he's feeling. although you think he likes it, you know it'll be too much for his first time. you pull off, careful to spill as little of his release as possible, and sit back on your heels.

and kento is a mess. his lips part as he watches yours pull into a greedy smile. he's eager to watch you spit it out, perhaps just to see the visual reminder that he came in your mouth. but you meet his eyes, let him sit on your tongue a moment longer, and then swallow.

oh. he wonders how he'll ever lead a normal life again after a sight like that. his mouth is dry, cock still wet with your spit, heart beating out of his chest...

still, he manages to stop you when you move to get up and start on his aftercare. "wait."

you raise your brows. "yes, ken?"

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✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee! (and get early access!)☕️✦

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

“Okay-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, actually…

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

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

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

You feel like screaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He needs to win.

He has to win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who made all of this happen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

“You should fix that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go lie down.”

"But-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And more, and more, and more, until-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod repeatedly. You arch. You cum-

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

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

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

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

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

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

The stretch is slow, and burning, and filling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ready?"

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

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

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

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

“I can see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

⋆⋅ ❀ ⋅⋆

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just wait until they find out about the baby.

ೃ࿔*:･

masterlist

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

tags (open):

you hope he isn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but clark always talks to you.

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

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

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

“…you didn’t have to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

which is insane.

because you’re just—you.

and clark kent is…

well—he’s clark kent.

he stops by your desk around noon.

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

suddenly—“hey.”

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

you blink. “hey.”

“you doing okay today?”

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

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

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

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

you look up, a little slower this time.

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

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

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

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

you blink twice.

“…cool.”

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

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

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

and you do want it.

you want him.

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

so you hope he doesn’t stop trying.

he doesn’t.

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

and slowly—so slowly—you start smiling back.

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

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

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

he looks up, and his eyes go wide.

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

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

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

his fingers brush yours. neither of you moves away.

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

“it’s still warm,” you murmur.

and that’s the moment.

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

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

like the world just clicked into place.

“so are you,” he says softly.

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

but you don’t stop smiling.

you’re not even sure when he asked you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

clark : outside when you’re ready :) 

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

he’s outside—waiting. for you.

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

you go anyway.

he’s waiting outside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

clark doesn’t stop smiling. not once.

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

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

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

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

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

you look down, heart tightening. “sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so you do it for him.

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

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

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

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

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

you look up.

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

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

your stomach does a full somersault.

you nod.

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

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

when he pulls back, he’s smiling again.

not like someone caught in a daydream.

like someone who finally got to wake up beside one.

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

Metropolis screamed. Cars flipped. Glass rained.

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

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

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

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

Except…

His home wasn’t there.

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

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

Then a cry. Small. Trembling.

“Help! Superman!”

Clark’s head snapped toward the sound.

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

Clark’s chest caved in.

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

It was you.

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

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

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

Clark barely heard her.

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

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

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

“…Cla ...Superman…?”

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

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

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

You tried to smile. Your heartbeat stumbled again.

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

He pressed his forehead to yours, shaking.

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

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

He was. Violently.

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

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

Your eyes glistened, tears gathering, slipping through grime.

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

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

“Clark…don’t…cry…”

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

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

Your pulse stuttered—

then paused—

then—

…

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

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

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

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

Someone filmed.

A distant voice said something about a pulse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her hands flew to her mouth.

She screamed.

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

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

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

Her hands fluttered over you.

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

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

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

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

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

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

Then to your wrist.

Then to the hollow of your throat.

He didn’t speak.

Clark’s breathing hitched, fast, uneven.

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

Jonathan looked at Martha.

Martha shook her head, tears spilling freely.

Clark’s whole body went rigid.

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

His Pa reached out and gripped his shoulders.

“Clark.”

“No—”

“Clark.”

“Don’t—Pa—don’t—”

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

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

His Ma reached for him. “Baby, I’m—”

He jerked away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had no memory of sitting.

Or standing.

Or lying down.

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

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t blink.

He barely breathed.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The machinery whirred.

Lower.

Lower.

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

He wanted to be down there with you.

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

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

Let him in.

Please.

Let him in.

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

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

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

The wake was worse.

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

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

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

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

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

He was forced to find a new place.

Small.

One bedroom.

One toothbrush in the bathroom.

One bed.

One plate. One cup. One fork.

One.

That was all he needed.

That was all there was left.

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

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

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

“You don’t have to—” Jimmy started.

“I do."

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

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

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

“I’m coming.”

“Clark. Don’t push yourself.”

He hung up.

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

He stopped laughing.

Stopped smiling.

Stopped talking unless necessary.

Superman became a machine. Clark Kent became a ghost.

And the world kept spinning without you.

Work.

Save.

Write.

Fly.

Work.

Work.

Work.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turned slightly in his chair.

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

It slipped out of him naturally. Automatically.

He waited.

He waited.

A few seconds.

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

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

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

Just the hum of the fridge.

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

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

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

His hand hovered over the countertop.

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

It hit him so slowly it was almost cruel.

You weren’t in the other room.

You weren’t running late from the store.

You weren’t taking a nap on the couch.

You weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

You and your stuff was all destoryed

Your voice stayed gone.

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

He whispered your name.

Once.

Twice.

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

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once.

The ground dented. His rage didn't.

He hit it again. Harder.

A crater split beneath him.

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

Another blow.

“Why couldn't I—?!”

He drove his fist down again, knuckles carving stone.

“WHY DIDN’T I SAVE YOU—?!”

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

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

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

He just let them go.

Let them scatter into the dark.

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

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

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

A warmth he knew better than sunlight.

His head jerked up.

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

“Clark.”

His entire body went rigid.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t want to. He wanted to.

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

And then you were there.

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

Clark’s mouth fell open.

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

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

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

“Hi."

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

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

“Clark...” you said softly.

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

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

It passed through you like water.

He flinched.

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

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

“I’m not staying,” you said gently.

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

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

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

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

He swallowed hard, chest rising unevenly.

“Give it away.”

“…what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know how,” he whispered.

“I’ll show you.”

Clark lifted his head a fraction.

You leaned in and kissed him.

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

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

He needed it.

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

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

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

Your edges flickered.

Faded.

Your fingers thinned into threads of light.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His breath stopped.

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

You smiled one last time.

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

Clark’s hands grasped at empty space.

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

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

Its blues and greens blurred through his tears.

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

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

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

He flew toward the world.

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

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

Thank you.

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

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

“Please—help him—”

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

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

“They’ll be good,” Bruce muttered.

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

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

He always smiled politely.

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

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

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

That's when he knew.

He was ready.

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

“You could stay longer,” she whispered.

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

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

“You take care of her."

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

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

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

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

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

Silence settled around him like snow.

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

His voice thickened.

“I hope… I hope that counts.”

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

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

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

A warm presence stirred beside him.

He didn’t look. He just knew

“Clark.”

He closed his eyes.

“You came,” he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Close your eyes.”

He did.

“Breathe.”

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

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

He let go.

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

When he opened his eyes—

He was standing.

On soft grass.

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

The air smelled of pine and warm water.

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

He turned.

You stood there.

Whole.

Warm.

Alive.

His breath broke open in his chest.

“Hey,” you whispered.

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

“Hey,”

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

Sorry?

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