Day Reece

The buzzer cracks overhead, announcing halftime into the night. You don’t move right away. Instead you let your gaze linger on him as he peels the helmet free completely, shaking out that impossible silver hair so it sticks up in damp spikes.

Sweat gleams across his forehead, catches the lights in tiny prismatic shards, and when he drags the hem of his jersey up to wipe his face the motion pulls the fabric high enough to expose a taut strip of abdomen, delightfully flushed, carved from hours of drills and hits. 

Your breath hitches, your cock gives a helpless twitch against the seam of your jeans. You swallow once, already calculating how long you have to wait before you can slip away and find him.

That’s when she appears.

A cheerleader materialises at his side like she was summoned by the spotlight itself, petite, uniform crisp despite the heat, pom-poms still clutched in one hand while the other offers a glistening water bottle. 

Her smile is practiced, bright, the kind that’s been rehearsed in dorm mirrors. She lays her palm against his bicep, casual, familiar, fingers sliding over his sweat-slicked skin without hesitation. 

Gojo glances down at her, nods once, flashes one of those quick, polite half-smiles that never quite reach his eyes. His attention is already drifting, cerulean gaze sweeping the stands in restless arcs until it snags on you.

The change is instant. His whole face lights up, the kind of smile he saves for when no one else is watching. Your pulse stutters. 

You drop your eyes fast, heat flooding your cheeks, terrified that if you hold his stare too long the entire stadium will see the raw desire carved into your expression. When you risk another glance he’s already shifting his weight, body angling toward the stairs like he means to climb them right now, consequences be damned. 

But she stops him, a small hand pressed flat against his chest plate, pressing the bottle firmly into his grip. He pauses to listen. And then he laughs, head tipping back, eyes squeezing into delighted little crescents as he angles himself towards her, the sound carrying even over the crowds noise.

Something sour coils behind your ribs. Your fingers curl, nails biting into your palms until the sting soothes you. You crack one knuckle, then another, trying to force the ugly bloom of jealousy back down where it belongs.

Secret, you remind yourself. This has to stay secret. You knew this, you accepted this.

You’re still staring when Geto slides onto the bleacher beside you.

He moves with that same lazy, feline like confidence you’ve seen on the field, dark hair spilling over one shoulder as he leans in just enough that the scent of turf, sweat, and faintly sweet Gatorade fills the narrow space between your bodies. His purple eyes meet yours, calm and amused, the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Hey” he says, voice pitched low to cut through the din without shouting. “Don’t think we’ve officially met.”

You flick your gaze down to the field, Gojo still hasn’t noticed yet, head tilted back as he drains the water bottle, throat working while the cheerleader chatters on. You force your attention back to Geto, drag up a smile that feels too tight. “No…” you manage after a beat, the word coming out slower than you mean it to. “We haven’t.”

“Gojo talks about you a lot.” Geto’s tone is warm, almost conspiratorial, like he’s sharing something salacious. Your heart does a stupid, eager flip, a smile forming on your lips. “Says you’re the reason his grades finally stopped tanking.” You wonder if your face fell as fast as your heart did. 

“Oh.” You crack another knuckle, the sound sharp to your own ears. “That’s… good.”

“Yeah.” Geto exhales the word like smoke, leaning a fraction closer. “You know, I think he’s seeing someone.”

Everything in you locks. You hold very still, voice scraping out careful and thin. “Really?”

“Mhm.” He grins now, slow and feline. “He’s been showboating all night. Throwing prettier spirals than usual. Gotta be for someone special.”

You force a small laugh that doesn’t land. “Well… everyone likes him, so…”

The sentence trails into nothing. You drop your eyes to the stack of books at your hip, tracing the curled corner of the top one with your thumbnail as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing. Geto lets out a soft huff of amusement.

You can’t help it, your gaze drags back to the field, helplessly drawn to him.

Gojo isn’t laughing anymore.

His eyes are locked on you now, the crushed water bottle forgotten in his fist. Water spills over his knuckles in glittering streams that catch the lights and drip onto the turf. The cheerleader has stepped back half a pace, her smile faltering.

A vicious little thread of triumph twists in your chest before you can strangle it. Serves him right, you think, the words bitter and satisfied at once. It’s only the touch of a cool fingertip against your temple that breaks your fixation. You flinch back slightly, shoulders curling, but Geto doesn’t retreat. 

“Is it too hot out here for you?” He asks gently, pushing a lock of hair from your forehead, the strands clinging to the thin layer of perspiration on your skin. You shake your head a little, shoulders lifting a fraction, he arches a perfect brow. “You sure, pretty boy?”

You turn to him, expression shuttered. “Hey.” The word comes out flat, that veneer of civility worn to nothing. “I’m not sure if you’re meaning to flirt with me, or if I’m just reading it wrong, but either way, I’m not interested.”

For one second his face freezes, then, just as fast, he’s laughing, tipping his head so a lock of black hair slides across his cheek. “Cold” he drawls, no real sting in it. “Shot down before I even got started.”

“Sorry” you say again, already distracted as you turn away again, scanning the field for that signature silver hair.

He’s gone.

The space where he stood is empty now. You strain upward, searching the sidelines, the tunnel mouth, the clusters of players…nothing.

Geto leans in one last time, lips brushing the shell of your ear, warm breath sending an involuntary shiver racing down your spine. “See you around” he murmurs, the words barely audible, intimate in a way that makes your skin crawl. His hand ghosts over your shoulder, before he stands and slips away into the crowd.

You scrub at your ear with the heel of your palm, trying to erase the lingering heat of his mouth, the faint damp press of his lips. Down on the field the halftime show is winding down, lights shifting, music swelling again, but all you can feel is the sudden, hollow ache of his absence, and this gnawing feeling that somethings about to break.

… 

The final whistle echoes in your ears, a thin, metallic ring that burrows under your skin like a splinter. The scoreboard screams victory in electric blue and gold, the announcer’s voice booms over the crowd, and somewhere in the center of it all…is Gojo. 

He’s swept up, lifted, carried on the shoulders of teammates who shout his name like a prayer. You should feel something bright, something proud. And you do, in fragments. But your happiness frays at the edges the moment the celebration swallows him whole.

You stand frozen on the bleacher step where you rose without thinking, books clutched against your chest, the strap of your bag cutting into your shoulder. Around you the crowd surges forward, bodies pressing, voices overlapping, someone’s elbow jabbing your ribs, but none of it touches the cold hollow opening in your sternum. 

You need him to look. Just once more. A single glance, quick and secret, the kind he’s given you in crowded hallways or across lecture halls when no one else was paying attention. Something small, something only the two of you would understand. Proof that this win isn’t only his, that some quiet part of it belongs to the nights he spent sprawled across your bed with textbooks forgotten, mouth on your skin, whispering your name.

And he does look.

For one brilliant second his head turns, those eyes that hold the sky find you. The air leaves your lungs in a soft, helpless rush. He sees you. He has to see you. His gaze is cold, devoid of it’s usual warmth when it’s turned on you.

And then it’s gone.

His gaze slides past you, already drawn back to the chaos around him. A teammate slings an arm around his neck, another ruffles his hair hard enough to make him laugh, the sound carrying despite the noise. They close ranks. Shoulders and helmets and jerseys block him from view until there’s nothing left but fleeting flashes of white. 

You feel it, the slow, sick slide of doubt uncoiling in your gut like an ugly serpent. It’s not new, you’ve carried it for months, tucked neatly behind your ribs where it can’t be seen. Every time you caught your reflection next to his in a window or a mirror, your tired eyes, the way you never fill a room the way he does, it unfurls, roars its ugly words into your ear. 

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That he chose you anyway. That the secrecy was temporary, a shield until the timing was right. But now the thoughts rush in unchecked, louder than the noise around you, sharper than the cold seeping through your hoodie.

Is he tired of it? Of sneaking through back stairwells, of texts deleted before anyone can see, of pretending you’re just a tutor? Was it ever more than convenience, a way to blow off steam between practices and parties? An experiment he’s ready to end now that the semesters over and the spotlight burns just for him?

Your bottom lip catches between your teeth, you bite down until you taste blood. Your body locks, knees rigid, fingers white-knuckled around the edges of your books, because you’re afraid that if you move too suddenly, the tears waiting behind your eyes will finally spill and everyone will see. You can’t let them see. Not here, not now.

Before the doubt can harden into something brittle, you turn. You don’t run, not exactly. You move with a singular purpose, head down, shoulders hunched, weaving through the crush of bodies like you belong to the current.

A voice calls out Gojo’s name right beside your ear, so close you flinch. The tears come anyway, hot, blurring, turning the sea of jerseys and faces into smears of blue and grey and white until the whole stadium feels like it’s dissolving around you.

You don’t look back. You can’t. If you look back and he’s still gone, lost in that bright, hungry orbit, you’re not sure what piece of you will crack open and refuse to close again.

The thoughts drowns you. Maybe he was never yours to hold onto in the first place. Maybe you were only ever borrowing his light, and now it’s over. He’s finally ready to take it back.

You step out into the parking lot, the chill biting through your hoodie, and the tears fall freely now while somewhere behind you, the celebration rages on without you, without even noticing you’re gone.

… 

You do the only thing you know how to do when things become too much to take. You ignore it. Bury your head in the sand and drown yourself in work. 

The hours bleed together in the dim cone light of your desk lamp, the only sound the soft scratch of your pen against paper and the sound of your own heart. 

You flip another page, then another, eyes swimming over annotations you’d memorised months ago, tracing the same lines again anyway. You read ahead, past the syllabus and into the optional chapters no professor ever expects you to touch, paragraphs blurring into dense blocks of text that refuse to make sense. 

Anything to keep the quiet from pressing too hard, to keep your mind from straying to him again, to what he might be doing, and who he might be doing it with. 

But your room has never felt so empty.

He used to fill it without trying, you’d gotten so used to him. Sprawled across your narrow bed with his long legs hanging off the end, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching you over the top of the screen with that lazy, half-lidded intensity that made your skin prickle. 

You’d pretend not to notice, nose buried in notes, but every time he shifted, every time he huffed a quiet laugh at something on his feed, the air changed. Somehow warmer, and lighter.

It doesn’t work. You want him, you want him here, with his warm smell, his warm hands, his bright eyes, and even brighter laughter. 

You want him here.

And not the public version, the perfect, untouchable athlete with the easy smiles. No, you want the private Gojo. The one who smells faintly of turf and sweat after practice, whose eyes go soft when he thinks no one else can see. The one whose laughter starts low in his chest and ends up bright, reckless, filling every corner of this cramped space.

You stare down at the words on the paper in-front of you, your pen strokes so hard they’ve almost gone through the paper. You fling the pen across the desk. It clatters off the table and and falls silent on the floor. Your fists come up fast, pressing into your eye sockets until white sparks bloom behind your lids, until the pressure almost drowns out the hollow throb in your chest. 

A sudden, violent bang shatters the quiet, the wood door shuddering on its hinges under the impact. Then another, each more frantic than the last, like someone is trying to kick the door open. 

You rush to the door and  wrench it open with enough force to make the chain rattle, ready to hiss at whoever it is to stop before the neighbours call security, or worse.

The words die the instant you see him.

Gojo stands on your threshold like he’s been carved from the night itself, glowing like the moon itself, a flush high on his cheeks, the colour spreading across the bridge of his nose in a deep, bitten-rose that makes your stomach twist. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, shimmering wet in the weak glow of the porch light, lashes clumped with what could be tears. 

His silver hair stands on end in chaotic tufts, matted at the temples with sweat, or product, or the hands of too many people who wanted a piece of him tonight. His jersey hangs crooked, one shoulder low enough to bare the delicious dip of his collarbone.

“Where were you?” He sniffs, one hand braced on the doorframe. He uses the other to swipe at his nose, the motion quick and embarrassed, like he’s ashamed to be caught crying. “You just… disappeared.”

You drop your gaze to the scuffed floorboards between your feet, knowing that the next thing out of your mouth will be childish and petulant but not having the means to stop it. “You didn’t seem to need me there.”

“What— You were—” He coughs, spluttering a little, dragging that same hand through his hair again, fingers twisting in the strands hard enough to pull.“You were with Geto. Talking. Smiling. He touched your hair, for fuck’s sake.”

The accusations makes something in your chest flare, hot and indignant. “If you must know” you say, each word strained, clipped, cold, “we actually spoke about you. And the second he got too close I shut it down. Hard.” You lift your chin, forcing yourself to meet those glassy blue eyes. “I can’t say the same for you and your little…halftime fan.”

His mouth opens and closes like a guppy fish, you seize on his silence, needling him with your words. 

“Was she more your type?” The question tastes like acid. “I heard all the stories, Satoru. Before me. You didn’t exactly play hard to get back then. She was cute. Really cute. You should’ve got her number. Especially now that you’re apparently—”

His fist meets the wood of your door, cutting your vitriolic monologue off.

Your brain screams at you to apologise, take it back, to not let what you have fracture any further. But the pathetic, aching part of you stays silent. Waiting. Wanting him to deny it. Wanting him to prove you still take up space in his chest the way he takes up every corner of yours. Wanting him to crack open, raw and bleeding, so you can finally see how much of him is still yours.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

The seconds stretch, suffocating you slowly, and the longer it goes on, the more of your heart you feel splinter away. 

You mirror him without thinking, dragging your own hand through your hair, shoving it roughly back from your forehead, the motion exhausted, defeated.

“Go home, Gojo” you sigh, an unbreakable weariness crashing over you in a slow, drowning wave. “I’m… tire—”

His mouth crashes into yours before the word finishes.

Hard. Deep. Wet. 

His hands frame your face, wide palms engulfing your cheeks, thumbs sweeping tenderly over the crests of your cheekbones  even as he presses forward, forcing you back across the threshold. You suck in a gasp just as his lips seal over yours, tasting the tang of beer on his tongue, the salt of his tears, one fat drop slipping free from the corner of his eye to track down his cheek and fall between your joined lips. 

A soft, broken whimper escapes your throat. He drinks it down, pushing you back another step, one hand sliding from your face to splay wide at the small of your back, fingers digging in, as though letting even an inch of space open between you might allow you to slip away for good.

He kicks the door shut with the heel of his foot, the slam reverberating through the thin walls of your apartment. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even flinch. His body is already crowding yours, driving you backward until your spine meets the nearest stretch of wall with a dull thud that knocks the breath from you. 

One thick thigh wedges between yours, pressing up hard against you so that you feel every hard inch of him, the heat of his arousal unmistakable even through layers of fabric. His heart hammers against your chest in frantic counterpoint to your own, a wild, unsteady rhythm that says he’s as terrified as he is desperate.

His hands turn greedy, fingers curling like claws into the soft flesh of your hips, your sides, the backs of your thighs, anywhere he can reach. His mouth is relentless, teeth catching your lower lip on the next kiss, tugging hard enough to sting before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue. 

You break away just long enough to drag in air, head falling back against the wall with a soft thunk, exposing the line of your throat. He doesn’t hesitate. His lips descend in a hot, open-mouthed path down the column of your neck, biting, not gentle nips, but real bites that bloom into vivid red marks almost instantly, each one a brand he sinks in deeper when you gasp. 

“Don’t you ever say that again” he growls against your skin, voice rough, breath scorching where it fans over your skin. He pauses there, panting, chest heaving against yours. “You’re the only one I want. The only one I think about. Every fucking second.”

Heat floods your veins, thick and dizzying, feeling nothing but the press of his body, the scrape of his teeth, the way his fingers dig in harder as though afraid you’ll dissolve if he eases up even a fraction. But beneath the haze of want, the hurt you’ve been carrying all night claws its way back up, raw, insistent, refusing to be drowned out.

You lift both hands to his face, cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbones until he stills. Forcing him to look at you. His eyes are wild, and glassy with unshed tears, something that makes your heart twist painfully. You search them anyway, needing the truth he can never quite hide, even when every part of him wants to.

“Then why hide us?” The question comes out soft, almost a whisper, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady. Your gaze flicks between his left eye and his right, watching for the flicker, the crack. “Why keep pretending I’m nothing to you in front of everyone?”

His brows draw together, a deep furrow carving between them. For one agonising second his eyes screw shut, like the question physically hurts. When they open again the blue is fractured, and raw.

“Because…” The word rushes out on a shaky exhale, barely audible. His hands slide to your waist, kneading restlessly, thumbs circling over your ribs in a rhythm that’s meant to ground him as much as it distracts you. “I was scared you’d get hurt.”

You wait, breath caught, letting the silence stretch until he has no choice but to keep going.

“Like you said” he continues, voice cracking on the edges, “before you I had… a reputation. I didn’t want you hearing the stories. Didn’t want people whispering shit about you…about us. Calling you the flavour of the month, or worse. I thought if they got to you, if they made you doubt…” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I thought you’d run. That I’d lose you before I even really had you. So I hid it. Hid us. For as long as I could.”

His word are devastating. All the ugly fears you’ve been nursing dissolve in a single, breathless rush. Guilt follows fast on their heels, sharp and familiar; your own words echoed back at you, cruel in hindsight.

“Toru” you choke out, your fingers slide into his hair, gripping the silver strands hard enough to make him wince softly. His eyes search yours, wide and vulnerable in a way he rarely allows. “I’d never run from you.”

He sucks in a shuddering breath, those impossible blue eyes flaring brighter.

“I love you” he says, voice breaking on the confession. “I love you, Y/N. I really fucking do.”

The words burn through you, searing the last of the doubt away. Your throat tightens, eyes stinging hot. “I love you too, Toru. So much.”

His mouth finds yours again, a clutch of lips and teeth and tongue that steals what little air you have left. He pulls back just enough, chest brushing yours in ragged rises and falls, eyes fluttering shut as though he’s letting your words sink in. When opens them again, his pupils have almost swallowed the blue, raw with unfiltered desire.

“I won’t stop” he growls low, hands sliding from your waist to the hem of your shirt, fingers teasing the edge, knuckles grazing bare skin. “Once I start I won’t be able to—I’ll—”

“Toru.” Your voice drops into something darker, sultrier, fingers pressing gently but firmly over his lips to quiet him. “I won’t ever tell you to stop.”

His tongue flicks out immediately, sliding between your fingers to lick a slow, lascivious stripe along the pads. His gaze never leaves yours. You shiver hard, teeth sinking into your own lip as heat coils tighter in your belly.

He pushes your hand aside and dives back to your throat, sucking a fresh mark into the skin just below your jaw while his fingers shove your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric catches briefly on your arms, he doesn’t wait, yanking it free and tossing it somewhere behind him.

Your pyjama pants give no real struggle before they surrender, pooling at your ankles when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and drags them past your hips.

His palm cups you through your boxers, pressing just hard enough to feel the way your cock twitches under the touch. A soft, desperate sound tears from your throat. Your gasps turn ragged, eyes screwing shut as the fever takes hold completely. 

It’s not healthy, this need, this bone-deep certainty that you’d rather stop breathing than stop feeling him, but the thought barely registers before it’s swept away.

“Fuck” he growls against your shoulder, lips trailing fire across your skin. He rests his cheek against you for a heartbeat, breathing you in, eyes lifting to search your face like he’s asking for something he already knows the answer to. “I want you so bad.”

Your lashes flutter open. His sapphire gaze glitters back at you.

“I’m yours” you whisper.

His eyes widen, mouth parting on a silent inhale. Then his arms wrap around you again, crushing you to his chest. 

In one fluid motion he lifts you, hands braced firm under your ass, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, and carries you the last few steps toward the bed.

He lowers you toward the mattress, his mouth brushing your ear in a hot, trembling whisper. “I’m gonna make sure you never doubt us again”.

You’re already sinking back against the pillows, thighs parting in silent invitation as you feel the mattress dip under his weight. You expected him to settle between your legs, to press the hard line of his body flush against yours and chase the friction you both craved, but he didn’t.

Instead he slid lower.

His mouth mapped a slow, deliberate path down the center of your torso, open-mouthed kisses pressed to the fragile skin over your ribs, the dip of your navel, the sharp jut of your hipbone, each one hotter than the last, leaving faint, glistening trails that cooled too quickly in the cool air of your room. 

When he reached the waistband of your boxers his hands found the backs of your thighs, warm palms sliding up until he could hook one leg gently over his shoulder. 

Those cerulean eyes lifted to meet yours, he held you captive while his lips brushed the wet spot darkening the fabric of your boxer. Your cock jerked hard beneath the thin barrier, a helpless twitch that made heat flood your face. He smiled against you, the kind of smile that said he could feel every frantic pulse, and then his teeth caught the elastic.

He peeled your boxers down inch by torturous inch, never breaking eye contact, daring you with every slow drag to reach down and stop him. You didn’t. You couldn’t. 

The waistband dragged over the head of your cock and then lower, freeing you completely, the sudden rush of cool air made you gasp, one hand flying to your mouth to muffle the sound as your length bobbed against your stomach, already leaking at the tip. He helped you pull them off the rest of the way, sending them arcing over his shoulder. 

He licked his lips once, then leaned in and pressed the softest, wettest kiss right to the flushed head of your cock.

Your hips snapped upward before you could think, chasing the heat of his mouth. You forced them back down with a strangled noise, twisting your head to stare at the dull paint on the far wall, because looking at him, at the way his lashes fanned against flushed cheeks, at the way his tongue darted out to taste you, was too much. One slide of those perfect lips around you and you’d be gone, spilling down his throat without warning.

A light tap against your sternum pulled your gaze back down despite yourself.

He was watching you still, eyes half-lidded and wicked, tongue flat and slow as it circled the ruddy crown of your cock, collecting the bead of precum that welled up and swallowing it with a quiet, satisfied hum. The sight punched the air from your lungs.

“Fuck—stop” you yelped, voice cracking, fingers scrabbling at his forehead in a weak attempt to push him away. You couldn’t breathe, not with his breath ghosting hot over sensitive skin, not with the wet heat of his tongue so close it felt like a burn.

He didn’t stop.

Instead he parted his lips and let a thick, deliberate string of spit fall from the tip of his tongue. It landed on the tip of your cock, drawing startled gasp from you, then slid down the underside of your shaft in a slow, glistening trail, over the swell of your balls, then lower still, until it kissed the tight furl of your hole. 

Your spine arched off the mattress like a bowstring pulled tight, every nerve lit up at once.

Then his mouth closed around the head.

Molten heat enveloped you. A wet, velvet suction that dragged a choked gasp from your throat. Your eyes snapped wide, fingers knotting into silver strands hard enough to make him groan around your length. He took you deeper in one smooth glide, tongue flattening along the underside, swirling lazy patterns over the sensitive ridge while his gaze never wavered.

His free hand slid lower, fingertips circling your rim in teasing strokes that made your thighs tremble. Then one finger pressed inside, breaching the resistance with steady pressure until your body yielded and swallowed him to the knuckle.

“Ah—fuck” you hissed, head slamming back against the pillows, hips canting up into the dual assault of his mouth and hand. He worked the finger in and out in shallow thrusts, curling just enough to brush that spot inside you that sent sparks racing up your spine, while his tongue smoothed relentless circles around the head still cradled between his lips.

“How are you—” Your voice fractured on a moan. “How are you so fucking good at this?”

He pulled off with a wet, obscene pop, lips shiny and swollen, hand wrapping around your base to stroke you in long, lazy pulls that kept the slick sounds echoing through the room. “I’m good at everything” he murmured, voice wrecked and smug at once, the words vibrating against your skin.

The rhythm of his hand, the filthy wet glide of spit and precum, the low groans you couldn’t hold back, it all wove together into something overwhelming, dragging you under. Without warning he worked a second finger inside, twisting them together, stretching you open with a thoroughness that bordered on clinical if it weren’t so devastatingly intimate.

“Stop—I’m gonna—” Your legs kicked uselessly, heels digging into the sheets, hands shoving weakly at his head again. “Toru, I’m gonna cum—”

He relented, barely, pulling his fingers free with torturous drag that left you clenching around nothing. He pressed one last filthy kiss to the weeping tip of your cock, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit like he was savouring every drop, before he began the crawl back up your body.

His mouth left marks in its wake, sharp bites that bloomed red across your collarbone, your pecs, the sensitive skin just below your nipple, teeth sinking in deep enough to dimple flesh and hold for a heartbeat before releasing.

When he finally settled over you again, hips slotting between your spread thighs, he braced one forearm beside your head, the other hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise.

“You’re shaking” he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, silver strands falling to curtain your faces from the dim lamplight. “Tell me you still want this. Tell me you’re not gonna disappear on me.”

The question hung there, his cock pressing hot and heavy against your entrance, not pushing in, just resting there like a promise. His eyes searched yours with an intensity that made your chest ache, like he was waiting for the moment you’d pull away and prove every fear he’d confessed right.

“Never” you whispered.

One word. Barely more than breath. But it carried everything, the ache you’d carried home, the doubt that had taunted you. You said it like a vow, like the only truth left that mattered.

And it was enough.

His mouth parted on a soft, shattered exhale. Then he pressed forward, slow at first, careful not to hurt you, the stretch blooming sharp and exquisite as your body yielded around him. 

You should have been used to it by now, to the way he filled you inch by careful inch, but every time felt like the first. The burn, the fullness, the way your walls fluttered helplessly around the thick heat of him. His own breath hitched, his lips fell open, eyes going half-lidded and hazy as his gaze dropped to where you were joined, watching himself disappear inside you like he needed visual proof that this was real, that you were letting him in.

Your hands scrambled across the broad expanse of his shoulders, nails digging into sweat-slick muscle, pulling him down until his mouth crashed into yours. 

Only when he was buried to the hilt, hips flush against yours, cock throbbing deep enough that you swore you could feel it in your throat, did he finally kiss you properly. Messy, devouring, stealing the air from your lungs while he held perfectly still inside you, letting you feel every pulse, every twitch.

You writhed beneath him, legs hooking around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to drag him impossibly closer. The motion ground him against that spot inside you that made white sparks explode behind your eyelids, electricity racing up your spine. 

He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, then pulled back just enough for a thin string of spit to bridge your lips before his hips snapped back.

No warning.

He drove forward hard, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the small room like a crack of thunder. Your body jolted up the mattress an inch, a startled gasp tore from your throat. He dropped to his elbows, chest smothering yours, weight pinning you in place as he set a ruthless rhythm, deep, punishing strokes that rocked the headboard against the wall in time with your stuttering breaths.

Your eyes slipped shut. Hands slid from his shoulders, down the lean taper of his waist, until your fingers hooked into the firm muscle of his ass. You dug in hard, urging him deeper, faster, chasing the brutal drag of him against every sensitive inch inside you. Your cock was trapped between your bodies, slick tip sliding against the ridges of his abdomen with every thrust, the friction maddening.

“Fuck—yes” you moaned, voice fracturing. “Don’t stop—don’t—”

He growled something incoherent under his breath, then pushed up onto his hands. One palm wrapped around your throat, not tight, just firm enough to make your pulse thunder against his fingers, to make every gasp sharper, every breath a conscious effort. 

You loved this version of him, the one who lost the leash on his control, who let raw want drive him until his jaw clenched so hard you half-expected his teeth to crack.

“Look at me” he rasped, each word punctuated by a particularly vicious snap of his hips. The wet clap of skin meeting skin dragged a high, needy whine from your throat. Your eyes flew open, locking onto his, glittering with something feral and tender all at once.

“Beautiful” he growled, the word scraping raw from his chest.

In one fluid motion he gripped your waist, pulled out with a slick glide that left you clenching around nothing, and flipped you onto your stomach. 

You went bonelessly, pliant from the waves of pleasure already crashing through you, letting him arrange you however he wanted, chest pressed to the sheets, hips yanked high, knees spread wide. A firm slap landed on your ass, pulling a shocked yelp from your lips, before he lined up and sank back inside in one long, smooth thrust.

Deeper.

From this angle he reached places that made your vision blur, cock dragging against your walls with devastating precision, so far in you felt him in your stomach. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, your face pressed into the mattress in a futile attempt to muffle the broken sounds spilling from your mouth.

“Hold on, baby” he chuckled, dark and breathless, before he fucked into you like he was trying to carve himself permanently inside your body.

It was filthy. Debauched. Like you existed in this moment solely for him to take, to use, to wring pleasure from until there was nothing left. And god, you loved it.

“Yes—god, yes—” The words tore free, muffled against cotton, fireworks bursting behind your closed lids, toes curling so hard they cramped. He dipped low, lips finding the nape of your neck, licking, biting, marking, while one hand snaked beneath you to splay wide over your lower stomach.

The pressure hit like a shockwave.

His palm pressed down, feeling the bulge of his own cock moving inside you through the thin wall of your abdomen. The sensation was overwhelming, too much, too intimate, too raw. Your eyes rolled back, a strangled scream caught in your throat as pleasure tipped into exquisite pain.

You turned your head just enough to catch him in the corner of your vision, silver hair falling into his eyes, jaw slack, expression shattered. Any trace of control was gone, he was pure instinct now, hips snapping erratically, chasing his own release while refusing to let you slip away from him.

His other hand wrapped around your cock in messy, off-rhythm strokes that were more desperation than skill, thumb swiping over the leaking tip with every upstroke.

It was enough.

The orgasm ripped through you like thunder, sudden and violent, a full-body convulsion that arched your back and shook your thighs. You cried out, voice cracking, hips bucking wildly enough that you nearly dislodged him. 

Cum spilled hot and thick over his fist, over the sheets, your whole body spasming as wave after wave crashed through you, leaving you trembling and gasping.

And still he didn’t stop. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, breath coming in harsh pants against your neck—but he kept driving into you, chasing the last fraying edges of his control. 

With one last shuddering snap of his hips he buried himself to the hilt, balls drawn tight against your skin as a low, guttural groan tore from his throat, the kind of sound that vibrated straight up your spine and settled in your chest. 

You felt him pulse inside you, thick and insistent, hot spurts of cum flooding your walls until the sensation tipped from fullness to overwhelming, making your body clench reflexively around him, milking every last drop while broken whimpers spilled from your lips.

He collapsed forward, weight sagging heavy against your back, chest heaving in ragged bursts that fanned damp heat across the nape of your neck..

You shifted, just a small roll of your hips, testing, and drew a sharp, pained groan from him. That was when you registered it, he was still hard, still buried deep, cock twitching with oversensitive aftershocks inside you. A slow, deliberate grind upward made his cum leak out around the base, warm and slick, trickling down your thighs in a lazy trickle.

“Stop” he hissed through clenched teeth, hands clamping down on your hips like iron, trying to still you. But you managed another small, teasing shift anyway, feeling the way he stretched you open again, the drag exquisite even through the sting. He sucked air sharply between his teeth. “Fuck—stop a second, I’m sensitive.”

A wicked little chuckle escaped you before you could swallow it. You did it again, moaning low in your throat as the fullness shifted inside, pressing against every oversensitive inch of your walls.

“No” you whined, pitching your voice deliberately slutty, desperate, peering back over your shoulder to catch the fractured blue of his eyes. “I need you.”

Something in his expression snapped, a visible, visceral reaction, a quick tic at the corner of his eye like a fuse burning through. His hands wrapped around your waist in a bruising grip and yanked you upright, pulling you back onto his lap in one fluid motion.

“You asked for this” he growled against the shell of your ear.

Then his arms hooked under your thighs, folding your legs back against your ribs until your knees nearly kissed your shoulders. 

His hands laced behind your neck, forcing your head down so you had no choice but to watch as the thick length of him disappeared into your body again and again, obscene and hypnotic, your own cock slapping wetly against your stomach with every punishing upward snap of his hips.

A strangled yelp tore from your throat. The angle was brutal, deeper than before, every thrust grinding against that spot inside you until sparks danced behind your eyes. You tried to squirm, to ease the intensity, but his hold was absolute.

“Wait—Toru—” The words fractured into a whine.

His fingers unlocked from behind your neck, allowing your head to slump back against his shoulder. You turned instinctively, pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the line of his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, anywhere you could reach.

“I saw you with him” he gasped, voice cracking, eyes glassy and distant even as his hips kept driving up into you. “I thought… I thought you were gonna leave me.”

“Ngh—” The sound punched out of you, thunder building in your blood, ready to crack. “Please… Toru…”

“I can’t lose you.” The confession came out ragged, almost a sob, his thrusts turning harder, faster, one hand sliding to your hip to drag you down onto him with every stroke. Your thoughts scattered like ash, your body went limp in his grip, one hand anchored desperately to his waist, feeling the muscles bunch and release beneath your palm.

“You—you won’t” you whimpered, staring up at the ceiling in a daze, pleasure coiling so tight it hurt. “I’m going nowhere… I’ll never leave you… I-I—” The world split open. A white haze swallowed everything as your release crashed through you, back arching violently off his chest, thighs shaking, a broken cry ripping free. “I love you!”

“Shit—” He hissed the word like a prayer, flipping you prone again in one rough motion, pressing you flat into the sheets. He moulded himself to your back, thigh to thigh, chest to spine, lips at your ear, tongue flicking out to wet the skin there in a slow, possessive drag. “Fuck, Y/N… I love you too.”

The words tipped him over. He drove deep one last time and spilled again, hot and pulsing. His hips didn’t stop, he kept rocking into you through the aftershocks, a stream of filthy, broken groans spilling against your neck until, finally, he stilled. 

With a shuddering exhale he pulled free, cum slipping warm and thick from your body as he slumped beside you, half-draped over your back like he couldn’t bear even that small distance.

And suddenly, everything felt right.

His weight anchoring you to the mattress. Warm breath ghosting over your shoulder. Silver strands tickling the nape of your neck. His hands, gentle now, tracing slow, soothing circles into the dip of your lower back.

You turned your head against the sheets, cheek pressed to cotton that now smelled faintly of him. His eyes were closed, lips parted on uneven breaths, cheeks flushed a deeper red than you’d ever seen, the colour bleeding down his throat. You lifted a trembling hand, fingers brushing his cheek, pushing damp strands of hair from his forehead.

His lashes fluttered. Those impossible blue eyes opened, finding you instantly, softening in a way that made your heart clench so hard it stole your breath. The realisation hit you all at once, sharp and sweet and overwhelming. You were madly in love with him. And he, with all his light, and all his fears, and his football field-sized bravado, was madly in love with you.

A hysterical little giggle bubbled up from your chest before you could stop it.

He blinked, happy and bemused at once. “What?”

“I just… love you so much.”

His eyes lit up, like you’d handed him the entire sky. A beautiful, lopsided smile split his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Stop” he whined, suddenly burying his face in the sheets, but not before you caught the fresh pink flush climbing his ears, spreading down his neck in a wave he couldn’t hide.

You chuckled softly, leaning closer until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “I love you.”

He flinched, a small, helpless sound escaping him.

“I love you.”

“Stop—” The word cracked into laughter, but he couldn’t quite manage it. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest in a tangle of limbs, but you didn’t stop.

“I love you” you whispered again and again, between every kiss pressed to his jaw, his collarbone, the hollow of his throat, until the words blurred into a mantra and his laughter shook the bed beneath you both.

“Shit” he huffed finally, breathless, head dropping back against the pillow, eyes fixed on the ceiling with a soft, contented smile curving his lips. “I love you too. Now stop, before I turn into complete mush.”

“Okay.” You lifted your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes. “Love you though.”

He let out a pained groan, all dramatic and theatrical, but the smile never left his face. “Love you too”

You settled your cheek against the steady thump of his heart, arms wrapping around his waist so tightly you weren’t sure you’d ever let him go.

And that's it folks! I hope you enjoyed! Sorry it was so long, got carried away 🤤.

Alpha!Clark who presented as an Alpha and literally couldn't stop thinkin' about you. During his entire first rut, his brain was consumed with thoughts of you. Thoughts of you being such a good omega and helping him with school work, thoughts of him scaring off your bullies who thought you were too flamboyant, thoughts of you beneath him, thoughts of you purring Clark's name into his ear... It really affected Clark. He felt so full of shame once he'd come to after his rut had ended; he literally couldn't look you in the eye for a week!

Alpha!Clark who had discovered a new side of himself, a side he tried so hard to shove down and keep hidden. A side which would keep Clark up at night unless he jerked off to the thought of you, his innocent, perfect, sexy childhood best friend, in compromising positions and situations with the Alpha. A side to himself which made it so difficult for Clark to concentrate on what you were saying when you're eyes looked so pretty looking up at him, when your scent was making his brain feel fuzzy and his dick ache, oh and especially when your voice saying his name to get his attention sounded so sweet. But the superhuman kept this perverted side of himself bottled up. That was until he received a gift.

Alpha!Clark who couldn't turn down a gift from the Omega he'd been desperate to court since childhood. So, when you presented him with a silver band-like ring, how could he resist putting it on? Though both of you were unaware that the minuscule red gem encrusted into the ring, the one you thought was a plastic rhinestone, was actually one of the last tiny pieces of red kryptonite left on earth (excuse the lack of series knowledge). And you wouldn't find out for a while. After all, it was such a tiny piece that it affected Clark very minutely. Though it slowly but surely picked up speed.

Alpha!Clark who thought he just felt a bit braver recently. Maybe his brain had fully developed. Or perhaps he just stopped thinking about consequences or morals as much, but he was definitely acting differently... Again, it started off slow and small. An out-of-pocket kinda sexual comment about you that you'd laugh off: "Your lips look good around that popsicle". Then it turned into more open courting; yeah, you and Clark had kind of been courting each other since childhood, but now the Alpha was carrying your bag around all day and giving you gifts every morning. Then came the jealousy; an alpha couldn't get a word in if Clark was around, whether the said alpha be a friend of yours or even sometimes a teacher, Clark would be on them like white on rice; holding back snarls as his arm snakes around your waist, baring his teeth, and making passive-aggressive comments.

Alpha!Clark who was still managing to put up a 'good Alpha' front despite the influence of the kryptonite. But behind closed doors, it was a very different story. The laundry basket in your room had tempted Clark many times, to the point it became routine for him to sneak a pair of your underwear and take it home with him, replacing it with a pair he'd stolen a couple of weeks past, which had lost your scent. Oh, and not to mention the way that any time you would sleep over at his house, share a bed with him, Clark would make sure you were asleep and jerk off until his dick felt like it would fall off. You just looked so fucking perfect and blissful next to (below) him, how could he resist? How could he stop?

Alpha!Clark who had reached his boiling point. It was a hot summer day, and Clark was being made to help out on his parents' farm while school was out. Of course you offered to help him out, and how could he say no? It was getting to a point that Clark could barely go a whole day without seeing you. But you were really doing the opposite of helping him. Sure, you were getting the jobs around the farm done, no complaints there. But you were rendering the young alpha practically inept with the way your skimpy summer clothes were showing off your skin, the way your body was shiny and sweaty from the hot summer air, and holy shit, the way your face was flushed along with your cute pants of exhaustion? Clark could feel the boner in his pants almost tear the seams of his briefs.

Alpha!Clark who finally submitted to the influence of the red kryptonite in his ring, meaning he finally gave into his desires, his basic Alphan needs. You don't even know how it happened, but one second you were moving around some haybales in the Kent's barn, and the next you were sitting atop said haybales with Clark standing between your legs, kissing you feverishly. His scent of mineral musk and small notes of grapefruit was all you could smell, making your head feel fuzzy as you reciprocated the kiss, the kiss from your childhood best friend. Clark, on the other hand, was greedily inhaling the sweet smell of vanilla bean and sandalwood that was leaking from your scent gland; the alpha literally huffing through his nose whilst moulding his lips against yours, you'd think Clark was addicted to your scent.

Alpha!Clark who had his (temporary) fix of your lips and started kissing down your neck, stopping to give your scent gland some attention, and all the way down to the waistline of your shorts. Before it even registered to you, mainly due to the Alpha pheremones weakening your frontal cortex to increase the chance of reproduction, Clark was on his knees below you; his strong, muscular arms holding your thighs up and his chiselled face between your asscheeks. Loud moans and desperate whines echoed throughout the barn and only worked to egg Clark on as he worked his warm, wet tongue into your hole; your gushing slick and his own spit literally flowing down his chin and perfect jawline like some lewd waterfall. Your fingers gripped the Alpha's brown locks with a force that to you felt like a lot, but to the absolute hunk of an Alpha beneath you felt like an adorable attempt. Your toes curled in the air above Clark's head as your thighs shook from the intense pleasure of an Alpha eating you out like he was starved, because after pinning for you for so many years, Clark may as well have been.

Alpha!Clark who felt his heart skip a beat and his inner alpha scream in pleasure when you came on his tongue as you moaned out Clark's name. But the Alpha fell in love with you even more (though that would be literally impossible) when, after basking in the afterglow of your earthshattering orgasm, you offered Clark the same treatment, explaining with an embarrassed blush that you didn't want him to feel left out. That's how you both ended up lying hayloft of Clark's barn; you on top of the muscular alpha in a sixty-nine position, his dick in your mouth and vice versa. To say that Clark had never felt so much pleasure before would be an understatement, 'cause the way you started to gently lap at the Alpha's musky, inhumanely large dick and then transitioned into head sloppier than Clark had seen in porno's? That shit made Clark wanna cum then and there. But don't think that just 'cause the brunnette was almost drunk on pleasure that he wasn't focusing on your pleasure too! No, no, Clark was having to wrap his muscular arms around your hips to keep them still; the top he was giving you was making you leak slick and pre like a tap left runnin'! Seriously though, Clark could fit your entire omegan prick inside his mouth with ease, and the way his tongue would rub your tip whilst his cheeks would hollow was making you see stars.

Alpha!Clark who held off his orgasm, perks of being Kryptonian, unlike you, who shot another load down the Alpha's throat and leaked so much slick that Clark could have drowned. Though Clark was more than happy to hold off his orgasm if it meant he could knot his Omega; yes, his Omega, 'cause at this point, marking and knotting you were formalities to claiming you. By the time the aftershocks of your second orgasm had quietened down, Clark already had you in another position; kneeling behind you as your chest lay flat on the hayloft, your hips on the other hand, propped up and presenting for your Alpha. Clark gave you the grace of entering you slowly and giving you time to adjust to his ten-inch monster; though from the mewls and moans of pain and pleasure you were letting out, his soft approach barely helped.

Alpha!Clark who rocked your world the moment you gave him the green light. We're talking backshots that could be heard all the way in England; Clark's huge, masculine hands gripping your hips tight enough to move you on and off his cock but gently enough to let you know he cares. Your breathy moans loudly reverberated throughout the barn as Clark knocked the wind out of you with every thrust, and the Alpha's own groans and moans harmonised with yours so nicely. Your scents mixed in the air along with the smell of slick, spit, and sweat; the hot, humid summer air making even the open-plan barn stink of raw sex. The scene looked like it belonged in a VHR porno, and both of you couldn't get enough of it; your Omega keening and purring at the physical and emotional feeling of having an Alpha like Clark want you in this way, and Clark's alpha roaring in pleasure and pride from having his Omega beneath him and drunk on pleasure from his doing.

Alpha!Clark who checked in on you one last time before letting himself go, leaning down, his muscular chest to your arching back, and whispering in your ear 'you doin' good? Mind if I knot you, darling?'. Ugh and when you give the man a forced nod and moan out a 'yes please'? How could Clark help himself? He'd wrapping and arm around your waist and another around head, letting your head rest against his huge bicep as his hips start moving at a speed your body could barely register or handle. All you could remember other than your own lewd sounds and moans was Clark's groaned-out string of perverted, raw, Alphan comments as he knotted you. "Fuck you're so tight" "So fuckin' good for me- the- NGH- perfect fucking Omega" "AH- Shit-! so wet and warm just for your- your alpha" "Fuck 'm gonna knot you 'n fill you with my pups, darlin' You want that, don't ya?" That dirty talk, along with the feeling of Clark's thick knot pushing against your rim, was what sent you over the edge for a third time. You saw white, then black, then stars of white again as your vision came back in small spots. Your dick soaked the wood and hay below you with infertile Omegan cum, your breathy moans and whiny pants mixed with Clark's moans and croons as his knot kept him locked inside of you; his thick, warm, scarily fertile cum filling you to the brim. Every unconscious pulse of your walls coaxed and forced another shot of seed out of Clark; a natural push and pull from your inner Omega and Alpha. At the end of the day, no matter how much pleasure you get out of this, the end goal, whether you want it or not, is pups.