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Apartment 2b, straight across from apartment 3b.

For the better part of 3 years, you and Clark Kent have lived in these apartments. It took 3 months for you to first interact, 4 more to invite him over for coffee.

You couldn't have just said, " hey Clark, wanna come over for coffee?

Nuh uh, this is you that we were talking about, so obviously it had to have been in a ridiculously, word vomit-y way.

You were both returning from work at the same time, something that had happened every day this week, and every week before that. Turns out you have the same hours as the daily planet reporter across the hall. 

You’d meant to ask him in for coffee last week, but overthought the concept too much. 

Who wants coffee after work? hellloooo caffeine wakes you up and he is obviously trying to go to sleep after work, not get more energy? sigh, just forget it.

But that one evening, the one where returning to your dull, cramped apartment alone for what must've been the thousandth something time, was too tiring and depressing to endure again. There was also that little hope in your head that maybe he was tired of it too. So you decided to spew out whatever word vomit was pending in your mind, before you had time to think about it.

“Hey Clark wait up,” 

A light buzz of excitement shook in the pit of your heels, when you realized that you were really doing this. Watching him turn around at your words, maybe just a little too quickly, like he was waiting for you?

“Y- yeah whats up?” he continued after clearing his throat, his initial attempt at a response coming out far too high pitched for a grown man.

“I uhm, did you…”

I want to come inside! Say it. Come on say uh, say did you want to come inside Clark, do you want coffee? For the love of god say something and stop staring at him.

He looked at you expectantly, but not like he just wanted you to hurry up and spit it out, more like he would wait another hour for you to speak without a complaint.

The first thing you noticed about him, he was always well mannered. Not even on purpose, it was more like a reflex. 

“Do you want the, uhm apartment tour?”

…Seriously? I mean I know I said say anything but come on! It's a metropolis apartment, the layouts are basically the same in every one for the next 10 blocks you idiot! 

“Or, not that because that doesn't make sense, we have the same apartment. I meant coffee, do you want boffee-"

 A sigh of disappointment left your lips and your head dropped at your speech impediment that seems to have resurfaced from 1st grade, and set up shop right in between you and the man across from you.

To your surprise, when you lift your head back up, Clark hasn't gone into his apartment and shut the door, with a mental note to avoid his embarrassingly awkward neighbor for the rest of his life. He is instead, leaning against his locked door, with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and an amused little smile on his face, one that shows the cutest dimples you've ever seen in your life. 

“Do you wanna start over?” he draws, tone laced with just as much amusement as his face

A tang of shame and something else you can't quite put your finger on, causes the corners of your mouth to curve up in a small smile, as your eyes meet his.

“ Would you like to come inside for coffee, Clark?” you manage, finally.

“Yea, yea I would”

---------

After that, the two of you were classified as normal friends for a while, but became more the first time you drunk-puked all over his shiny black work shoes. Situations like that are really always the make or break point in any kind of relationship, lucky for you it worked out in your favor.

Well lucky isn't exactly the word you would've used to describe it at the moment. It would be something more along the lines of horrific or treacherous, but looking back now... no that was uh, still pretty bad.

But it turned out great! Because now, 2 years and a few months later, Clark Kent is pattering around in your kitchen –he's the only one that's ever really used it– making you lunch. The same way he had for… you can't even remember how long now. 

You watch uselessly from the couch while he cooks a random meal that you'd sent him off Instagram reels, you offered to help, but even he isn't polite enough to pretend you'd know what you were doing. 

He pretends to not want to make it, claiming that social media is causing your generation to lose the good quality meals passed down from your elders. But every time you send him a new video, with the message “ can u make this 4 me??”, he’s over by yours the next day.

 Holding bags of groceries, because “the only groceries you ever buy are instant noodles and frozen fries”, ready to make whatever it is that you want. 

He was like that in every way, with you at least, always there in a flash when you needed him. 

Whether it was a crazy bad date that you needed to escape from. Like that one last week that was so bad you still couldn't even tell him. And he didn't need you to, he just stood outside the ridiculously expensive restaurant your date had insisted on, then just so happened to conveniently forget his wallet, only after ordering the both of you two of the most expensive entrees on the menu. 

Carefully studying the tall building, shifting his body weight on either foot while waiting outside for you. All the while silently wondering if these are the only kind of guys you're into, the expensive restaurant, designer wearing, horrible credit kind. 

Eventually you did come outside, moving too quickly for heels that were as high as yours, glancing back to the glass front wall of the restaurant, wondering if your dad had seen you take the turn to the exit, instead of the bathroom.

After hearing you say once that you didn’t wanna talk about it, he filled the silent walk with ramblings of the hookup stories Jimmy would run his ear off about when he was trying to work.

Shoulders –more like your shoulder and his upper arm, due to your height difference- just barely bumping together as you made the trek back to your place in the chilly, busy, Metropolis streets.

When he noticed your teeth slightly clatter and your shoulders shake a little from the breeze, he didn't say anything about how your date should've offered you his jacket the moment he saw you in that beautiful but slightly skimpy dress, like he wanted too.

Instead, he shrugged off his own, wordlessly draping in over your shoulders. He couldn't just tell you why he  couldn't get cold, despite how much he wanted to.

So instead he continued the flow of the conversation so you did not have the option to reject the sentiment, in fear of him being cold. 

Wrapping his jacket around yourself tighter, you wondered what it would be like to be more than friends with a guy like Clark. Even though you knew you didn't really want “ a guy like Clark”, you really just wanted him. 

“What are you day dreaming about over there?” he remarked from across the kitchen/living room, quickly noticing the lack of keyboard clacking from where you were sitting.

“Just about how I'm ready to tell you about my nightmare of a date from last week” you stated in a sorta cocky tone, only because you know how much he hates not knowing things. Not looking up from your laptop, you quickly type in the last sentence of your paragraph. 

You listened from your cozy position on the couch as the tried to feign nonchalance at your statement, accidentally knocking something over in the process.

He was always so predictably, himself, yet another thing you loved about Clark Kent.

“Yea?- Crap… Ill ah, ill clean that up dont worry” 

“Didnt doubt it Kent” the words leaving your mouth in a vaguely mischievous tone, a plan forming in your mind. As you leisurely strolled over to the kitchen island, dropping yourself down on a creaky stool,  and scooping a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth, taking advantage of his distraction. By the time he noticed, you already raised your hand up to your mouth.

“Hey dont! Ah you little…” he drew sarcastically from your kitchen floor, where he was looking up at you from his hands and knees, wiping up the spilled mixture before it could seep into your sketchy flooring, making a suspiciously attractive tsking noise.

You never noticed, but he always knew when you were going to take something, and what you were going to take. So he’d secretly grate more cheese, or cut a few more strawberries, in anticipation for your stolen handful. Pretending he didn't know, because he knew you liked it.

Clark was just the kind of guy that remembered all those little things about you. 

Like how you “didn’t believe in umbrellas” because it was “just a little rain”. But you always found an umbrella in that little space between your wall and front door, where the paint is cracked along the seam.

Or how you never packed any food for yourself because you claimed you never got hungry at work.

 You did, wouldn't admit it, but you did. Clark knew that about you, which is why you'd always find an apple, crackers, and a juice box in a little box at the bottom of your laptop bag. With a little note in Clarks scribbly hand writing that says “eat me, im good for you!”

You didn't verbally thank him because you knew he didn't want you to.

So instead you did little things for him too, brought new flowers for his apartment without mentioning it, always picking up two laundry detergents at the store because he never remembered it.

You weren't the kind of girl that remembered all the little things about people, you were barley able to remember your own shit, let alone somebody else's.

But for Clark? for him you did, every time.

Friends just do stuff like that, you told yourself. Don't be full of yourself, he doesn't like you, you're just close friends, your subconscious insists whenever your heart gets the notion that it could be for a different reason. 

“Thought you had a story for me? Jeez, where are you today princess?” 

His words dragging you back down to earth, you met his slightly concerned gaze. he was using the nickname he’d given you a while back, after you first asked him to make one of your “reels meals” as he so cleverly called them.

(It wasn't that clever but you didn't have the heart to tell him, because he looked so proud of himself.)

“Didn't realize you were so eager to know about my love life, kansas” you replied, with a nickname of your own, one you’ve also been calling him for a while. 

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me, now spill” 

You couldn't help but giggle at his inability to hide his flaming curiosity when it came to you.

 “Okay well, it was going great until he showed up 40 minutes late with no text…”

You watch as his jaw dropped, before you swear you literally saw the thought shoot up to his head, his face morphed into that of someone who was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Wait, what do you mean it was going great until he was late? That was how he started the night!”

He replied after he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing in your face, although you still weren't too sure of his ability to compose himself.  

“Yeah it was great when I was at home!”

Now he did laugh in your face, and you couldn't help but join him. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, between his dimples, and the tone of his laugh, you were always laughing with him. 

“Aw princess…” 

He said, gazing at you with a remorseful look on his face. Not that remorseful, considering he still had that big dopey grin of his across his face, but still remorse nevertheless. 

“Thats it Kent, you're not getting any more story time, you’ve lost your privileges!” you exclaim dramatically feigning sadness at his reaction. 

“I just, you deserve better. You know that right?” he says, his laugh drying up, looking you straight in your eyes, completely serious when he says the last part of his sentence.

“Yeah, i uh i know that it's just…” you look down to where your fingers are fiddling with a bottle cap you hadn't even realised you’d picked up, while you try to figure out how to word what you want to say.

“I'm tired of not having someone, you know? For all that romantic jazz” you trail off, trying to make your feelings sound less serious than they are, because you don't like serious feelings.

Clark however, doesn't mind talking about your feelings at all.  “Is that why you went out with that…” he takes a second, choosing his words carefully as he tries to remember that he was raised as a well mannered farm boy who usually has no trouble refraining from profanity.

nother thing that was different with you, he felt so strongly about well, everything concerning you. Like it was all heightened or something.

“Jackass?, jerkoff? dickhe- ” you fill in after noticing his lack of words.

“I was trying to avoid profanity, but yeah.” he cuts you off, exaggerating the word “avoid” to remind you to not “be so crass”.

“I guess, these days it feels like, having someone is better than nothing, y’know?”

“Yeah i get it”

This is it, ask him on a date!! You're both lonely, Do it!

“Hey listen Clark, would you uhm want to… uh-”

Your ability to speak is short circuited by his direct gaze into your eyes.

You’ve studied Clark Kent’s face countless times, and every time, it steals away your ability to speak. 

The subtle crinkle in between his perfectly shaped eyebrows, the one that tells you, you have his complete undivided attention.

The stubble that he rarely let grow, but when he did, it extended your ovulation by 4 days, each time. And his blue eyes that held so much emotion when he looked at you, like you were the only girl he’d ever seen. 

A sudden ding, that you quickly recognized as your oven timer, cut through the tension and made you jump a little.

“And that would be our lunch, let's see how it turned out” Clark said, trying not to sound excited at his newest creation. 

“Yeah lets see if I'm gonna keep you around” you joked

To which Clark snorted in response as he kneeled down to pull the tray out of your old cranky oven. 

“Like you could find someone else to do crap like this” he says under his breath, knowing he'd hate if you went out and got yourself a boyfriend to do this stuff for you, he definitely knew you could.

“Mmm yeah i guess you're right…” you replied, letting him know you heard him anyway, extremely enticed by the smell wafting out the oven. If you could, you'd be floating out of your seat in the air to the smell of the food, like those cartoons you watched as a kid.  

Clark got to work plating the food, placing in front of you, a plate, knife and fork. Before turning around to grab you a coke from your fridge.

Pouring it into a glass instead of just giving you the can like you insisted,

“Hey, the can is fine!” your groan, reaching for his arm across

“No, that's so… just no” you watched the 6 '4 man shudder at the idea of drinking soda straight out the can, quite the ridiculous sight.

“Fine but you're just giving me unnecessary dishes to wash.”

Scoffing in response “ like you ever wash dishes, please! Its dishwasher or dirty over here”

“And besides, I cooked, ill wash the dishes”

“Thats not how it works”

“Its how it works with me, now eat your food” he says while placing down the glass beside your plate.

Giving up on arguing with the incredibly stubborn giant in front of you, you instead dig your fork into your food and bring it up to your mouth.

“Clark, this is great! holy sh-” you grumble out loudly , bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, since your mouth is still full.

“Hey, you can thank me by refraining from your course language, missy” he cuts you off before you finish your sentence. 

“Yeah alright, dad” you remark under your breath, quiet enough so that there was no way he'd be able to hear it.

“What was that? He says without missing a beat, spinning around with a plate and glass of his own before setting it down across from you.

“Wha- how’d you hear that?” you replied, shocked. 

“You- y’said it so loud what do you mean?” he said too quickly, like he was covering something up. Averting your eyes while he spoke in a tone that was too high for him to be telling the truth.

Normally, he is great at lying, seeing he’s been doing it for more than 2 decades now. It's just that thing about it being you, that's causing his ability to dwindle. 

“Oh” you spoke again, you knew you didn't say it audibly, you barely heard it yourself. Over the years, being friends with Clark Kent means you’d have to pretend you didn't notice something.

There weren't any huge slip ups from him that would lead you to question if he wasn’t human or anything. Just little things, here and there. 

Like when he would take a pan out of the oven and use an oven mitt, only those oven mitts were way too thin for him to be holding the pan for longer than 5 seconds. You’d gotten them for 30 cents at a garage sale, you’re pretty sure they’re older than you. 

So without even noticing you were doing it, you’d make up excuses for him along the way. 

The oven mitts aren't that thin then, I must just have really sensitive hands or something. 

Oh anybody could've accidentally snapped that door handle off, it was loose.

Little things prevent you from believing the impossible that everyone did, whether they noticed it or not. Which was probably a big part of the reason Clark had managed to keep it undercover for as long as he did. 

“ Do y’have any more horrible dates planned for tonight, or are you staying in?” his voice cut through the momentary silence.

You scoffed before replying, “ill have you know that the date I have planned for tonight is rather promising” in a know-it-all tone.

“Mhm” Clark says skeptically.

“Whats his name?” he asks and you mentally kiss your teeth. You were hoping he didn't ask that. 

“Its…” you take a second before continuing, brain scrambling to decide if you’d rather make up a fake name then tell him, as you move food around with your fork. 

Sighing, you reluctantly continue, "It's Bartholemew… But he goes by Bart!” you're quick to add the latter when you see his lips beginning to curve in a cocky smirk. 

“Well I hope it goes well.”

“So do I Clark... so do I” you said hopelessly.

It took a while for Clark to be comfortable enough with you to joke around with you a little. When you first became friends, he was all gentleman-y.

 Don’t get me wrong he still is, he's just able to joke around with you now, he’s comfortable. That was what you weren't willing to risk by dating him. Him having someone comfortable to him was such a big factor in your lack of courage.  

—-------

Turns out Clark was right, your date sucked. After getting all dolled up, makeup, hair, the perfect dress, your date wasn’t just late.

He was hours late, as in your date started at 6 and he showed up empty handed at 8.. He’d texted you “5 minutes babe” , at 7 o clock and even your standards weren't low enough to deal with that. 

So here you are, alone in your bed at 9:30, face rid of makeup all snuggled up in your bed, rewatching glee. Instead of being wined, dined, and brought back to bed like how you intended this night to go. 

You’d been wallowing in self pity for hours and decided to make it worse by ordering junk food around 30 minutes ago. Which is what you thought that the loud bang you heard was. 

Woah, the driver must be in a hurry, you thought. 

Only that noise didn’t come from the side of your wall that the door is on, no that came from across the apartment, from where your window is?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you go to investigate the noise, freezing suddenly when you hear your window latch open. 

Holy shit okay, okay this is happening. Fuck my phones dead, that's, that's fine i can do this.

You talk yourself up, grabbing the closest thing you can find to defend yourself, the umbrella.

Quietly, you creep around the corner, steps silent as adrenaline and nervousness buzz through your entire body. Hands shaking so bad you're worried the intruder can hear the latches on the umbrella clicking together. 

Taking one last deep breath, you veer your head around the coroner, only to find the last thing you would expect. 

“Clark?” The words leave your mouth at the same time your death grip around the umbrella loosens, clashing to the floor as you rush over to kneel beside the bleeding, large, groaning man on your floor. 

Your shock and adrenaline illuminates throughout your body even faster as you take in his appearance. 

His hair disheveled in a way you've never seen it before, his soft curls aren't combed back, they now sit all over his head, tangled with between the strands. His face is littered with little cuts,

your eyes zoom in on a particular gash under his eye. Watching it a little further, it almost looks like its… healing itself? 

You watch in amazement as the skin under his eye begins to pull itself together. Forcing yourself to look away, you trail your eyes down the rest of his body.

The familiar emblem is what you notice first, then your brain starts to register the deep blue covering his broad muscular shoulders, the dirtied red cape that surrounds his body. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

The thought races in your head as your mind draws you back to all the things you excused or turned a blind eye to all of these years, how could you have not noticed this?

“M’sorry, t-thought you weren’t home” his deep, damaged voice cuts through the sound of your heart beating erratically in your eardrums. 

“Clark you’re…” you say, unable to continue.

“Superman? Yeah i notic-” he fills in for you, trying to joke away the terribly concerned look in your eyes. 

“Hurt” you cut him off “You’re really hurt” you say, eyes trained on the cuts littering his face, like you think it'll go away if you blink, like you think he will go away.

Shock drapes over his pained features, like he can't believe that you'd care about anything other than the stamp across his chest.  

“Yeah I was, mmfph, yeah I'm hurt” he concludes after trying, and failing, to sit up and talk to you.

Your thoughts momentarily short circuit, trying to figure out what to do, before realizing that you couldn't possibly know how to help him because he is an alien. 

Bringing your hand to either side of his face, forcing him to look at you when his eyes began to flutter closed and his head began to loll to the side. 

“How do I help Clark?" you decide to just ask him, concern washing through your body at a rate that disables your critical thinking skills.

“I'm really sorry about– ahh jeez –this, I thought you wouldn't be here ill-” he drones on, literally apologizing for bleeding into your carpet.

Squeezing his face lightly, you interrupt him again, “Clark”

You watch him look at you, like he's trying to look straight through your eyes and into your mind to figure out what the hell you're thinking right now.

“Yeah?” tone softer than before.

“How do I help?” You say slowly, hoping that he'd stop feeling guilty and just tell you what to do.

“Can you uh, help me up? I'll be fine, I heal fast, I just need to sleep it off.

Immediately, you shift your body to help him up, a low deep groan leaving his lips when you begin to help him off the floor.

He begins to walk over to the front door of your apartment but you quickly drag him deeper into yours. 

“I can go.. Ill be fine i promise” he begins

Holding your ground, “No, no way Clark im not leaving you like this come on” you say as you lead him towards your bed.

He drops heavy onto your mountain of blankets, eyes closed in pain. You find yourself worrying about who's been taking care of him while he takes care of everyone else. 

You bring yourself to lay beside him, wrapping your hands around his head, wishing there was more you could do.

“Again i'm sorry about this, about all of it i-”

“Stop apologizing Kent, trust me if I didn't want you here you wouldn't be here” you joke, trying to make him feel less guilty.

You watch a small smile grace his face, wincing at the same time he does when the movement stretches a cut on his eyebrow.

“How long?” you ask 

“How long what?” he replies, craning his head to see you

“How long does it take for you to heal?”

“Oh this? This isnt bad ill be all good and out of your hair in a few hours” he downplays.

“I guess I'll see what happens on the news tonight huh?

A low chuckle leaves him, filling the quiet room  “Yeah I guess you will.”

—----

You both keep the conversation going, as an attempt to distract yourselves from how close you are to each other.

It doesn't work, every time your leg brushes against his thigh, or he shifts to get comfortable, you notice it. You both really notice it, and it's driving you crazy. At some point during your conversation,Clark was able to turn on his side to face you. 

So now it wasn't just the moderate physical touch that was driving you mad, it was the way he looked at you too. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and somewhere under that all that adoration, there was something darker that mustered as well.

Soon, you realized you both hadn't said anything for a whale, you were just looking. Just for a second, something you could have easily missed, his gaze dropped down to your lips. 

That second was all it looked for you to bring your face just that little bit closer, and finally close the gap between you two. Clark stilled for a moment, before beginning to move his lips on yours. He didn't kiss like you thought, in truth you’d never been kissed like this before. 

He moved his lips on yours like he craved you for years, and maybe, he had?

His hands grazed the curve of your waist, seemingly asking for permission. You granted in by moving even closer to him, causing his back to lay flat on the mattress, you brought your thighs on either side of him. 

 Hovering your center over his, not because you didn't want them to connect– in this moment, you actually wanted nothing more, but because that would make it real.

Breaking the kiss would also make it real, it would mean you would have to look him in the eyes and give him the chance to take it back.

Eventually, did you have to pull away to breathe, and meet his gaze. When you did pull away, his lips were all pinked and swollen, pupils dilated and he studied you with the same intensity you studied him with. Searching your eyes for any sign of doubt, anything that told him you didn't want to cross this line. 

Because you both knew that once you did, there wouldn't be any going back. 

“Are you sure? I need you to be sure” his gruff voice cut through the blissful silence.

Deciding quickly in your head, you lowered yourself onto him, connecting your heat to his. The action earned you a deep growl that you were sure you would never forget.  

Studying his expression again, you noticed the crinkle in between his eyebrows again, and felt a shock of worry course through you. 

“Shit did I hurt you?” You ask, voice sharp and concerned

“Not the word I’d use to describe it princess” he replied, a subtle smile on his face.

“I need to hear you say it, please.” he spoke again, in a tone sounding like he was in pain.

You brought your face as close as you could without kissing him, and whispered the words he’d dreamt about hearing for far too long. 

“I want this clark, I want you”  you told him, rolling your hips into his so you could watch him writhe underneath you.

Hearing those words seemed to flick a switch in Clark's mind, gripping your waist, he flipped the both of you in one swift motion. The action surprised you, causing a yelp to leave your lips.

“Making noise for me already?” He speaks slowly against your neck, trailing sloppy kissing along your sweet spots, as he begins undressing you. 

This new version of the sweet, thoughtful, gentle man you've known for years, has a pool of wetness collecting in your underwear. 

All you can do is moan helplessly while he works his way around your body, seemingly knowing every one of your buttons to press. The sounds you make bounce off the thin walls of your apartment, drawing Clark's attention.

He murmurs from his position just below your waist , “Cant be too loud okay baby, walls are thin” 

As he pulls your thin sleep shorts and underwear down your thighs.

“You- you’re… wow” he stutters out.

“Clark!” you whine, struggling to keep your composure since he is taking so long.

“Sorry, sorry baby” he says, dragging the suit from its low position on his hips, all the way down to his ankles, before kinking it off. 

Leaving him in his boxers, you examine his length through them, sitting up on your elbows to watch him. 

Dragging your eyes away from his underwear and back up to his gaze when he catches you staring. A lopsided smile sits on his face as he watches you. You’re in nothing but your red lacy bra now, you’d still had it on from your previous night plans. Desperately whining for him to bury his cock deep inside you. 

You watch him peel his underwear off, as soon as his cock is released from its confines, all nine inches of him spring out against his stomach. Tip glistening in precum, you don't even notice your tongue come out to wet your lips.

A smug chuckle leaves Clark's lips as he brings himself back down on top of you, his arms on either side of your head.

“Condom?” your eyes watch as his mouth contours to form the word, wanting nothing more than for him to have his mouth on you.

Your gaze is still trained on his lips while the words leave your mouth,

 “I-im on the pill” you stutter out. The realization that this is finally happening hitting you all at once.

“Okay, are you sure you wanna…?”  Clark speaks again, still wanting to make sure everything was right for you. 

“Yea, yes just, kiss me? Please” you say while bringing your hand up to either side of his head, dragging his lips down to yours. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip and the action has you opening your mouth even wider for his access. 

Pulling apart from you, Clark lazily strokes himself in preparation. You look down at the motion to find yourself entranced by the sight. 

“Gonna make my girl feel good” he mutters the words more to himself than to you.

 You feel the tip of his cock graze your entrance and gasp, causing his head to look away from where you're both connecting, and back at you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” he says, light concern floating evident on his expression.

“Oh hold on” you say, contouring to try and remove your bra, before you feel a large hand on your stomach stop you.

“Wait can you uh, can you leave it on” he says, eyes gauging your reaction.

Swallowing, you nod and lay back down, gesturing for him to continue. 

“You say the word and I stop okay? No hard feelings”

“Clark…” 

“Yeah”

“Fuck me please” you dont even recognize your own voice, desperation so evident in your tone. 

Your words are all it takes for Clark to move himself into you, a synchronized moan leaving the both of you. Your hands shoot to grip either side of his arms, to brace yourself. 

“Hpmh- you feel, shit baby can I move?” he strangles out, using all his control to not thrust further up into you.

You nod eagerly, the feeling of him inside you with nothing in between the both of you unlike anything you’d ever felt before, you'd had raw sex before but it wasn't like this.

Clark drags himself out of you, before aggressively thrusting back into your throbbing pussy, that had been sucking him in with so much force, it took effort to move.

He continues his motions, causing moans so harsh to leave you, you weren't sure if you were moaning or screaming. 

“Clar- Clark, feels so, i can’t…fuck” you sputter out, brain rendered useless when he was fucking you this well.

“What's that princess? Where's all your attitude now baby?”

His words cause you to squeeze him in even further, his cock throbbing with need inside you is all you can think about. 

Clark brings his motions to a stop, causing a look of confusion to cover your features. He brings his hands to the backs of both your knees beside you, and your ankles over his shoulders.

In this new position, he somehow feels even deeper than before. He continues his pace, fucking you like youve been waiting for. 

“G’na, fuuckk, Clark” you scream, feeling the tight coil in your stomach radiate through you, unable to control yourself. 

You’ve never come so hard in your life, toes curling, vision blurry, all the while he is still pumping in and out of you, searching for his own release. 

You feel a large palm clamp over your mouth muffling your loud cries as Clark buries his face on your shoulder, releasing his load, deep into you.

All you can do is lay there and listen to his moans of pleasure as you let him use you. 

You both sit there for a minute, breathing heavily against each other, coming down from your highs. 

After a moment, Clark drags himself out of you and drapes a blanket over your naked, sore and shaking body. Your eyes flutter shut as you hear the shower begin to turn on, and Clark returns, still naked, holding a towel.

“Come on let me get you cleaned up”

After watching you groan and roll deeper into the mattress, Clark lets out a sigh of amusement before lifting you in his arms and carrying you towards the bathroom.

Adding to the overflowing list of things you loved about Clark Kent. 

No matter. You were excited to get back to normalcy after such an odd weekend. Though, you supposed you should get used to “odd” weekends. This was your life now.

You clutched your messenger bag closer to your side as you walked towards Mr. Hiromi’s class. The thought of him receiving that eyeball that Sukuna had sent him made your heart drop to your stomach.

What if Hiromi had already connected you to that man’s murder? Were the police waiting for you in the classroom? It would be fucking embarrassing to get arrested in front of your classmates, and it would probably only ostracize you from society even further…

You were just a stupid American who got caught up with the yakuza.

The toe of your shoes pressed against the floor, preparing for you to spin around and walk in the other direction.

“Hey!” A chipper voice shouted at you from behind before a palm clapped you on your shoulder.

The screech that left your mouth was involuntary. Immediately, you spun around, spilling out excuses and apologies. “I didn’t know! I didn’t see what happened!”

“Uhhh, okay then… Are you alright?” The voice sounded a bit more familiar. Reluctantly, you lifted your head to meet his gaze, and your shoulders fell as you realized it was just Yuji.

Inwardly, you swallowed thickly, cursing at yourself for getting so on edge. How were you going to be able to keep up this charade if this is how you respond after the first weekend with Sukuna?

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Yeah, are you alright?” you asked as you trained your face to a blank expression… as if you weren’t just making Jurassic Park noises in the hallway from a simple touch.

His big brown eyes looked you over, and his face twisted ever so slightly. If you weren’t searching for the most minute details, you would’ve missed it: the way his eyebrow twitched slightly. He was probably just concerned or confused.

Whatever he was searching you for, he seemed to find because he relaxed his body and gave you his signature big smile. “I’m better than alright. Did you hear Mr. Higuruma is taking a leave of absence? Maybe we’ll get a professor who’s less of a hard ass.”

A ringing noise filled your ears. Hiromi was taking a leave of absence, and it was probably because of you…

You didn’t dare respond as Yuji went on to yap about how he was studying all weekend for a quiz that Mr. Higuruma was supposed to give out today. As you two stepped into the lecture hall, your eyes immediately fixated at the tall blonde male near the podium.

“Find a seat,” Nanami’s warm voice was like a shot to the chest. Did he somehow know about the eyeball? He and Hiromi seemed close, but were they that close? Were they the type of friends to help each other go into hiding whenever they were clearly being targeted by the yakuza?

Yuji’s lower lip curled into a pout as he accepted defeat. So much for having an easy rest of the semester. He had taken a few of Nanami’s classes before, and they certainly weren’t easy.

The rest of the class period was filled with your conscious screaming at you that everyone knows you’re planning to marry a cold blooded killer and whispers from Yuji about the most random things.

“Alright, that’s everything I have planned for today. For your final paper, I want you to research a criminal case that interests you and analyze the defense attorney’s work on the case,” Nanami instructed as your peers began to pack up to leave.

Yuji visibly melted onto his desk. You shot him an incredulous look. He was so dramatic sometimes; you wondered just why he was pursuing law if he absolutely hated the coursework.

“I’m not going to make it,” he said in a hoarse voice as if the assignment was physically killing him.

You shook your head at his theatrics. Mentally planning out the rest of your day to get ahead on assignments, you rose from seat. “You have to help me, y/n. We’re like a team, you and I.” Yuji went on to plead his case, begging for you to sit down with him and help him out with his final paper.

He was suddenly akin to a needy puppy. As you looked towards his big brown eyes, you couldn’t find the heart to tell him no. “Fine, we’ll work together this week, but I’m not doing your work for you, Yuji.”

As if you had made his entire week, Yuji launched himself up from his seat with a cheeky grin on his face. “Hell yeah, I’ll bring snacks and stuff so we don’t get hungry and—“

“Y/n, a word please?” Your impromptu professor chimed in, interrupting Yuji’s happy babbling.

Your blood ran cold, wondering what Nanami could want a word about. A tiny unhelpful voice in your mind was already whispering, planting the idea that he knew. He knew that you were involved with the yakuza.

Swallowing thickly, you slowly approached the front of the lecture hall near his podium. You were surprised to feel a presence behind you. Risking a quick glance, you were relieved to see Yuji planted behind you with a curious expression as well.

Surely, he wouldn’t bring anything up about the yakuza while you had a friend with you…

Nanami cocked a questioning brow at Yuji. “I don’t remember requesting your presence, sir.”

Your blood pressure dropped. He had to know. Hiromi definitely spewed to him about Sukuna.. about the eyeball.. about everything.

“Is there a specific reason you need to talk to a female student alone, Mr. Nanami?” Your friend was quick to fire back, painting a pink blush over Kento’s high cheekbones with a simple question.

After closing his mouth from the shocked expression he wore, Nanami went on. “I’m not going to entertain that question. Y/n, I requested a word so I could tell you that I’ll be expecting a bit more from your paper. Being your advisor, I’m going to push you harder. I want to see you succeed. That being said, I know you’re in the civil law track. You don’t have to write your paper over a criminal offense; however, if your classmates find out and accuse me of giving you special privileges—“ He eyed Yuji. “I will deny ever giving you such freedom.”

You blinked a couple of times. This whole paranoia thing was going to be a bitch to manage. Maybe if you spoke up to Sukuna…

“I understand, sir,” you replied with a slow nod. “I hope I can make you proud. In return, can I count on getting a letter of recommendation from you in the future?”

Nanami gave you a friendly smile. “Of course, I’d be happy to write any sort of reference you need. A recommendation for now though: don't get into things you have no business in."

You felt your heart drop down to your stomach.

*** *** ***

It was the following Friday after the chilling meeting with Mr. Nanami. You had tried everything to calm your nerves, but it was getting to the point where spontaneous bouts of intense anxiety would crash over you during class.

It felt like everyone was staring directly at you. Before this, you felt pretty much invisible. Your name didn't call any attention, other than a passing glance due to carrying an American name. But now, you swore that peers whispered about you.

When Nanami stood in front of the room lecturing, it was as if he was actually preaching directly to you. Your conscious was eating away at you, wondering if that man had a family. Did he have kids at home who thought he just abandoned them for an elusive jug of milk?

To make matters even more tense, you didn't necessarily feel safe at "home" either. You rarely saw Sukuna since last weekend, but you would hear him at all hours of the night. Sometimes, the floorboards would creak around two in the morning, signaling his arrival or departure.

A tiny portion of you wondered if his timing was based off the whole yakuza lord status or if he was receiving entertainment from elsewhere. Your stomach physically burned like the fiery pits of hell whenever you thought of him with another. It was idiotic; you knew it was, but you couldn't help yourself. A small portion of you started to wonder...

The only time you had any sort of reprieve from the thoughts and swirling anxiety was when you had study sessions with Yuji in the library. You mainly tried to work on your paper, researching all sorts of civil lawsuit topics that could pique Nanami's interest, and Yuji mainly goofed off. It was a miracle whenever he got any sort of work done.

"So, what about this weekend? I could probably get tons of work done if I wasn't crammed in this stuffy library." Yuji's eyes looked around at the shelves and shelves of educational and research texts that surrounded you two. There was no reading for pleasure material anywhere on this campus, unless you were a geek about law.

"Oh, I don't know..." Your voice trailed off. While giving him a non-committal answer, your phone buzzed in your pocket. The rhythm of your heart skyrocketed as soon as you saw the contact name of who texted you.

"What's that look for?" Yuji laughed as he gazed at your hardened features. Sukuna seemed incredibly keen on just how to grate on your nerves.

Standing up to collect your things, you shook your head. "It's nothing. I need to get going. I'll see you on Monday. Good luck on your paper, Yuji." You quickly gathered your things, not wanting to test your luck with Sukuna's patience right now.

Yuji couldn't even get his goodbye out before you left the library. Your eyebrows furrowed together as you went to the main parking lot. Who did your future husband think he was? He had practically ignored and neglected you all week just to be demanding of your time the moment he wanted it.

It didn't take long to spot his care out from all the other mundane make and models. Plus, Sukuna was standing outside of it with the passenger door open and waiting for you to get in. What good is chivalry whenever his words and actions are nothing but venomous?

As he slid into the driver’s seat and the car roared to life, you couldn’t hold back temper. “So, what’s so special about today that you’ve decided to grace me with your presence?”

Sukuna’s eyes slid over to you as he floored it out of the parking lot. A chuckle emerged from his throat as he watched your body whoosh back against the seat. He only found more humor when you cursed him for being reckless.

“Angel, I’m starting to think this temperamental side of you is my favorite. If you want me to get hard, keep mouthing off. See where it gets you.”

A chill rushed up your spine, sparking against every single nerve ending. Suddenly, the outside world didn’t matter. Just being with Sukuna made you feel invincible. You didn’t know what it was about a tall tatted muscular man that made you feel like you were six feet tall, but he brought out emotions in you that you didn’t know existed.

Folding your arms over your chest, you decided it was better to not give him any sort of reaction. He would likely only keep pushing for more and more. It was never a give and take with him — only take.

“I figured you’d be excited about what I had planned today. Aren’t women typically the ones to gush and fawn over a ring?” he asked, sneaking his hand up your thigh. You quickly tried to cross your legs, but he was quick and brutish while tugging your legs towards him. It was non-negotiable. In the car, Sukuna’s hand was meant for your thigh.

“You’re taking me ring shopping?” you replied, giving him a cautious look.

His chest rumbled as he flexed his hands, drawing your attention to his inked fingers. He had on a few silver rings himself. “I’m fairly acquainted with jewelry, but I wanted your input. You’ll be the one wearing it for the rest of your life, after all.”

It was strangely thoughtful of him… in his own way. You couldn’t think of a way to respond to him. The rest of the trip to the jeweler’s was silent between the two of you, leaving much unsaid.

Upon entering the shop, the guy at the front counter was a heavier set Italian man who was greying on the top. His green eyes sparkled with amusement and nostalgia as he looked at Sukuna. Slipping the magnified spectacles off his face, he gave a hearty laugh. “Mr. Ryomen, what can I do for you today?”

Your future husband took your palm in his, easily engulfing your hand as he laced his fingers with yours. “I see that ugly mug hasn’t gotten any prettier in the last few years, Gio.”

Your eyes flicked between the two men with slight unease. Hopefully, this was just how they liked to banter with each other.

“You bastard. You and I both know I don’t have any problems in the looks department.” The man gave a wolfish smile as he rubbed his chin. Admittedly, he wasn’t ugly. You could definitely see the remnants of handsome features from his youth.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll pretend you didn’t say that next time I see Lucy.” Sukuna waved his hand in a disregarding manner. “I’m here for my bride.” He gently moved his hand to the small of your back to usher you forward towards Gio. “She needs a ring.”

Gio’s eyebrows raised as he took you in. He let out a small exhale. “Well, I didn’t think I’d live to see the day that Mr. Ryomen settles down. It’s no wonder, though. You are a beauty after all, miss….” His voice trailed, signaling for you to fork over your name.

You resisted the urge to look towards Sukuna for permission, but you were unsure about giving some strange jeweler your name. Besides, he seemed well acquainted with your husband, which could only mean that he was involved with the yakuza at some capacity.

“Y/n,” you finally responded, and you watched as the older gentleman took your free hand in his, lifting it towards his face. You went still, unsure of whether to jerk back or to let him hold your hand.

As he got too close for comfort, clearly going in to kiss your knuckles as a greeting, Sukuna pulled you back by your hips before Gio could make contact with your hand.

“That sort of greeting will not be necessary. If you value your lips intact, then keep them away from my wife.” You could’ve swore that Sukuna growled at the jeweler.

Gio quirked up the side of his mouth into a lazy smirk. "I can see you're serious. My apologies, then. What were we thinking in terms of a ring?"

You hadn't ever even thought about what you wanted your future engagement ring to look like. Marriage hadn't been an integral part of your life until you struck the deal with Sukuna. Before then, you had only been fueled off of spite and grief. That left no time for dreaming of a wedding.

Looking up towards Sukuna, you were surprised to see his eyes looking down at you. The ever opinionated yakuza lord was serious about you having free reign over this ring design.

"Oh- um, I'm not sure. I've never shopped around before or even looked..." Your eyes locked onto the glass display counter that was in front of you. There plenty of gorgeous pre-cut options to choose from that absolutely beamed in the light, casting a glittery kaleidoscope of colors. They had to cost a fortune.

Gio shared a silent look with Sukuna. In Gio's profession, he was used to the high-rollers bringing in their money hungry wives. Usually, their pupils dilated while looking at the dollar signs that they could make their husbands spend on them, but you... you look genuinely concerned, even frightened.

"Well, Mr. Ryomen, are you going to give her some sort of budget?" he asked, trying to figure out some place to start with the ring.

Sukuna scoffed as if Gio had outright called him poor. "She can have whatever she wants. I have better things to do than to nickel and dime my wife."

That only seemed to bring you more panic, indecisively frozen at the front counter.

The Italian man smoothed his brow, recognizing that he was not being faced with his usual clientele. This was the Ryomen Sukuna and his wife who was clearly a stranger to the finer things.

"Well, let me make something personalized for you two. It's the least I can do for an old pal, and a lady of such caliber deserves something special. I actually received an exceptional import of some of the finest rubies I have laid my eyes on. Are you a stickler for tradition, young lady?"

You shook your head. Despite your promise of purity until marriage, you didn't consider yourself to be traditional.

"Perfect. Let me go grab one from the back and show you what I have in mind," he said as he turned on his heel and walked towards the locked safe in one of the back rooms.

You gazed up at your future husband. This was just one more thing to make your deal so much more real. You were marrying someone who you hadn't even known for a month yet.

"Are you into following traditions?" you asked mainly to fill the silence but also because you were interested in what he considered to be tradition.

Sukuna cocked an eyebrow before reaching up and gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Now princess, what gave you the illusion that I give any sense of a fuck about what people did before me?"

You chewed on your bottom lip, looking away from him out of intimidation. "Does your family even have traditions? It's kind of important for me to know since they'll be my family too."

He stilled for a moment. Family wasn't something that he liked to think of too often, and the fact that you'd soon have to meet them brought on more protective instincts than Sukuna liked to admit. He didn't want them anywhere near you.

"They have expectations, not traditions, if that answers your question."

Before you could process that sort of response, Gio had already returned with a gemstone that looked to be bigger than your finger. Your eyes widened in shock, taking in how gorgeous it was as Gio laid it down on the carpeted surface of a tray.

"Look at that," he said as he gently picked up the ruby with a gloved hand to prevent any sort of fingerprint transference. He held it up towards Sukuna's face, letting your husband inspect the ruby. It glinted off of the light, nearly blinding you. "It matches the crimson of Mr. Ryomen's eyes. I suppose that’s why they call it a blood ruby. There's no finer rock to signify whose wife you'll be, miss. No one will be able to mistake it."

"We'll take it," Sukuna said with a firm nod. For someone who was keen on giving you full freedom over the ring's appearance, he was enthralled on the idea of you wearing something that was so completely him... as if the permanent necklace wasn't enough.

His cock swelled in his pants. The thought of everyone knowing that this angel belonged to the devil of Shibuya was enough to make him want to bend you over the counter and stake his claim to you in public, but he resisted... for now.

"I'll also want to include an engraving on the inside. I'll send it to you. Have it done by the end of the day, Gio." With that, Sukuna led you back out of the shop.

It was all happening so fast. While you were grateful that you didn't have to make the final decision, your head felt like it was spinning from how quickly Sukuna took over the ring decision. Then, there was the elusive engraving that he wanted but suspiciously wouldn’t say in front of you

“Are your feet sore?” he asked, typing away on his phone with one hand while he had your hand firmly clasped in his other. You two walked side-by-side with him keeping tucked on the inside, away from the street.

You looked down at your normal sneakers. You were still wearing the same clothes from school, and Sukuna had bought you all new shoes when you had moved it. Honestly, your feet had never felt more comfortable. It was like walking on clouds.

“No, I’m fine,” you responded in a mutter, you still weren’t over how he basically vanished for a full week, leaving you to cope with crippling paranoia on your own.

Sukuna clicked send on his text, and he pocketed his phone before glancing down towards you. The way your lips were curled into a small frown made him smirk. The way you wore your emotions around him never failed to entice him. “Get out of your head, doll. Tell me what’s on your mind. Did you not like the ruby?”

“No— the ruby was stunning. I’m still not exactly sure how to feel about the money aspect…” you immediately countered, pulling your hand away from his to cross your arms over your chest.

He grunted, furrowing his eyebrows at the loss of contact. It scorned him every little time you pulled back. “Money is not for your concern. It is not an object that I care about, and you’ll never need to worry or want again. So, dispel those thoughts from your mind and tell me what’s really going on.”

His words nearly made you stumble over the paved sidewalk. He didn’t care about money? Then, why even own an entire district? Filing those thoughts away in your mind, you finally decided to just get down to what was bothering you.

“Mr. Higuruma hasn’t came back to class, and I have a feeling that my advisor knows what happened— I just can’t stop thinking that everyone knows I’m involved, and that man… the one you…” You couldn’t say it. Not here. Not out loud. “He haunts me. I see him in my dreams. It’s like he’s clinging to my spirit and cursing me for my complacency. And you have been no where this past week. I know this isn’t a typical marriage, and I guess you don’t owe me anything. But goddammit I-“

Your breath caught in your lungs as Sukuna firmly grabbed your hip with one hand, spinning you until your back was pressed against a brick building. His other hand pressed against the wall as he towered over you, completely shielding you from the outside world. No, there was no outside world. It was just him. Just Sukuna.

His eyes bored into your soul. While he had to lean down to look at you fully, it only worked to intimidate you more. You leaned as far into the wall as you could, wondering if he was angry at you for bringing such a thing up.

“Has anyone told you that you ramble too damn much?” he asked lowly as his thumb trailed over your bottom lip, tracing its way towards your cheek.

You gasped softly, “No, I’m just long winded and thorough. That’s why I’m going to be a good lawyer.”

“Damn right you are,” Sukuna chuckled darkly, and his eyes skimmed over your face. “I said earlier that I had no interest in nickeling and diming you. That’s not just about money, brat. That’s for everything. Don’t keep yourself from me because you don’t think I owe it to you. I’ll determine that for myself.”

He leaned down towards your neck, and you had to stifle a whimper as you felt him caress your delicate skin with his nose, smelling you. Savoring your fear and restrained lust. “I lied. This is my favorite side of you.”

He inhaled deeply once more, and you shivered as you felt his eyelashes tickle the side of your neck. “I’ve been tailing your precious professor for the last couple of days. He's fine. He's just doing as he was told."

"You told him to stay away?" you asked quickly, nearly pulling away from him to get a good look at his face, but he held you still.

"He's a defense attorney, angel. He's not a stranger to threats. That's why I haven't been home. Now, who's this advisor of yours?"

You quickly shook your head. No way were you going to give up Nanami's name and get him drug into this too. You already had enough on your conscious.

Sharp teeth dug into the flesh of your neck, causing you to yelp. "Don't protect him. Do you not trust me?"

"Not in the slightest," you breathed out, trying to push him back, but it was like trying to shove a wall. "My advisor doesn't matter-"

Sukuna trailed his lips down to your shoulder, where he bit down again, making dental impressions on your skin. "A name. You're going to give me his name."

This time, a sweet moan fell from your lips. Sukuna dug his nails into the brick. The people of Japan were lucky to be no where around whenever you let that sound go because he was sure he was going to murder anyone else who heard it.

It took every inch of his self control not to rip off your stupid leggings and panties and slam into your virgin cunt. He'd shred every last bit of innocence you had. He'd make an impression of himself inside you. He wanted you to carry around pieces of him forever.

"No, I'm not..."

Sukuna dropped to his knees, and his palms massaged your thighs as he looked up at you. "I can think of better places to bite you until you give me a name."

"I don't want you to hurt him!" you cried out, desperate to not give up Nanami's name, but you didn't know how much longer you could take Sukuna biting you. You had already soaked through your panties, and you didn't want him getting any closer to find out how wet you were from pain.

"And I don't want him to hurt you," he growled as he leaned in close. His eyes were glued to yours as his breath brushed against the inside of your thighs. He was desperate for any semblance of a taste. When his tongue delved out, you quickly spoke up.

"Kento Nanami."

He almost wanted to pretend like he didn't hear you. He wanted to ignore everything and just shove his face between your legs until you started letting out those sweet noises again. He wanted his face to be coated in your honeyed dew. He wanted to drown in you.

Instead, he leaned over and bit your thigh roughly. "For making me ask more than once," he grumbled before standing back up, yanking you along behind him. "Your precious advisor won't be hurt if he stays in his own lane."

Your face was burning up with embarrassment. He had been so close to your core... You wondered if he somehow knew how turned on you were. The thought made you want to hide away from him.

You tried to ask questions on if he'd elaborate on what that meant, but he wouldn't. Sukuna was uncharacteristically silent throughout the rest of the day. He took you to lunch at his favorite small diner, and when Gio called him to let him know that your ring was done, he was silent on the way back too.

The only thing you noticed was how he kept having to readjust himself in his pants. He wasn't even trying to be sneaky about it. That knowledge alone only heightened your arousal for him. He was just as affected by you as you were by him.

Even whenever you two arrived back at Gio's, and you were able to see the ring in all of it's glory, Sukuna merely gave a grunt of approval. Your engagement ring was the epitome of gorgeous elegance. It wasn't traditional. A marquise cut blood red ruby sat proudly on a golden band. Proud ten carrot diamonds surrounded the gemstone. There wasn't a word for how devastatingly beautiful it was.

The only words Sukuna spoke was when you carefully tilted the ring to see the engraving on the inside. He read, "Until death and in the next life, my angel."

Your eyes involuntarily watered. Was it fear or was it heartfelt emotion?

"Let's let the misses have a moment while we talk business, yeah?" With that, Gio lead Sukuna to the backroom to discuss what he wanted as payment for your ring.

Whenever everyone gathers outside in the evenings, you deliberately sit beside other guys—the neighbor's son, an old friend from school, anyone. You laugh at their stupid jokes, all while stealing glances at Ryomen from the corner of your eye.

His expression never changes.

Cold. Blank. He nurses a beer or lights another cigarette, looking almost bored, but his eyes never leave you.

They find you through the crowd, studying every movement you make. Every laugh. Every smile. Every accidental brush of someone else's hand against your shoulder, as though committing it all to memory.

The longer this twisted game drags on, the more terrified you become.

You can feel the tension winding tighter beneath your skin.

And when it finally snaps...

You know you're going to be the one left in pieces.

You forgot one thing.

Sukuna doesn't tolerate outsiders.

A steady hum of voices drifts in through the back door, mixed with laughter and the shrill screams of children. Half the neighborhood seems to have shown up.

Someone brought meat for the barbecue, someone else showed up with salads, and others dragged folding chairs beneath the old oak just to claim a patch of shade.

You step onto the porch, and the scorching air crashes into you like a wave from an open oven. The midday sun hangs directly overhead, bleaching the grass into a dull yellow. Heat shimmers above the asphalt.

"Hey! Over here!"

Yuji stands waist-deep in the pool, dark wet hair plastered to his forehead, his usual bright grin stretching across his face. He waves both arms to get your attention.

You make your way down the stone path, the sun-heated gravel biting into your bare feet. The moment you reach the edge of the pool, Yuji flashes a mischievous smile and splashes you.

Cold water smacks against your stomach.

You gasp, flinch back, then laugh as you curse at him.

"Come on! Get in!" he calls, sunlight glistening across his shoulders. "The water's perfect!"

You peel off your shorts, letting them fall into the grass before climbing onto the metal ladder. The steps burn your feet, but the second the water reaches your waist, the oppressive heat melts away.

The water smells of sharp, clean chlorine and the sun-heated plastic of the pool edge. You dive beneath the surface, letting the cool water wash away the sweat. You surface, gasping, only for Yuji to splash you again, and suddenly you are wrestling like kids, the water spraying everywhere, a brief, fleeting escape from the dread.

Yuji lunges for your waist, but you twist away, slipping toward the deep end before resurfacing behind him.

"That's cheating!" he laughs, spinning around.

"Oh, quit whining."

He catches you the next time, wrapping both arms around your waist and lifting you effortlessly off the pool floor.

You squeal, grabbing at his sides.

His body isn't the same as it used to be.

His hands are rough now, strong, all lean muscle beneath warm skin.

With a laugh, he tosses you into the water.

For one blissful second, everything goes silent. Only bubbles drift past your face.

You surface, coughing and laughing at the same time, then shove him in the chest with all your strength.

He barely moves.

Just stands there, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're such an asshole," you mutter between breaths.

Water trickles down your collarbones, collecting at the ties of your swimsuit.

Yuji laughs, but the smile fades almost immediately.

"Uh... I've gotta get back to the grill." He rubs the back of his neck. "If Sukuna catches me slacking off..."

Your smile disappears.

"He's... coming?"

Your voice comes out quieter than you intended.

"Yeah." Yuji nods. "He and Toji went to grab more beer."

He notices the look on your face and lowers his voice.

"Sorry. I know you two don't exactly get along. But... maybe things have changed over the past year?" He shrugs. "Honestly, he barely ever talks about you."

You force yourself to nod.

If only Yuji knew.

If only this kind, oblivious boy had even the slightest idea what had happened two nights ago in the backseat of his brother's Mustang.

The way Sukuna had wrapped your hair around his fist.

The way he'd forced your face down between his knees.

The way you'd stared into those wild crimson eyes while he ruined your throat.

Your fingers drift unconsciously to your neck. It still feels as though his grip has never really left your skin.

"I should head inside," you mumble, already climbing out of the pool. "I need to dry off."

"What? We literally just got in!" Yuji calls after you.

But you're already walking away, not listening anymore.

You’re basically sprinting. The wet fabric clings to your body, highlighting every curve. The concrete is slick; you almost slip.

You frantically scan the tables for his silhouette, praying to slip by unnoticed.

You’re one foot onto the porch steps when a heavy palm slams onto your shoulder. Fingers dig into the muscle, jerking you backward.

You gasp, and your back slams into a rough wooden pillar.

The wood is scorching hot beneath the relentless sun, searing against your shoulder blades almost as fiercely as his grip.

He looms over you, a mountain of heat and shadow that swallows the light, cutting you off from the rest of the world.

Heat pours off him. He smells like sweat, sharp cologne, and bitter cigarette smoke.

The white t-shirt clinging to his chest is damp at the collar. A crumpled pack of cigarettes juts from his chest pocket. The tattoos on his face look like ink-stained scars, and his eyes hold nothing but cruel amusement.

"Where are you running off to, brat?" His voice is a gravelly, guttural growl. "Saw me and decided to bolt?"

"Let go, Sukuna," you hiss, pressing your palms to his chest. Under your fingers, his muscles are hard and boiling hot. "Let go, someone’s gonna come out!"

"And what are they gonna do?"

He leans in, pinning you against the pillar with his weight. Your wet swimsuit leaves a darkening, spreading blotch on his shirt. He drops his gaze to your chest, slowly licking his parched lips.

"Those tits look insane. Wear that on purpose? Knew I was coming, didn't you, little bitch?"

"Fuck off," you exhale.

He thrusts a hip, forcing your head to smack against the wood again. His calloused hand, smelling of engine oil, unceremoniously rests on your waist, his fingers digging in.

"Decided to get a piece of the brat while you're at it?" he whispers right into your lips. "I saw you fawning over him in the pool. Have fun?"

"We were just playing! Yuji is my friend, you hear me? He's normal, unlike you!"

"Friend," Sukuna spits out venomously. "That pup follows you around like a lost dog. And you love it, don't you?"

His hand slides lower, roughly grazing your thigh, his fingers shoving under the wet fabric of your bikini bottoms. Without a shred of foreplay, he shoves a finger inside.

You freeze, breath hitched.

"Sukuna... don't... please..."

"I don't give a damn," he smirks.

His finger moves deeper, working you.

"My dad... my dad's gonna come out and see!" you’re almost begging.

Not now.

Please, not here.

"And what’s your old man gonna do?" Sukuna sneers. "Beat me up? Brat, your daddy worships me."

His thumb grinds down hard on your most sensitive spot. A suffocating, sticky heat floods your lower belly. You hate yourself for how fast your body starts pulsing under his touch.

"I can hear you breathing," Ryomen whispers, biting your earlobe until it draws blood. "You want me to tear this piece of trash off right here and fuck you? Say 'no,' and I'll pull my hand out. Well? Say it."

You open your mouth, trying to choke out that damn "no," but instead, a dirty, drawn-out moan escapes your lips.

"Slut," Sukuna growls.

He jerks his hand away, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward the kitchen door.

"Get inside. Now." He gives your wrist another rough tug. "Running away, huh?"

You knew he was crazy. A hot-headed, dangerous beast. Once you’re in the dim hallway, he turns, his face inches from yours. His eyes burn with something wild, something deeply wrong.

You never should have gotten close to Sukuna.

You never should have made that deal.

"You get what’s gonna happen if your saint of a father finds out how his little girl sucks dick in parking lots?" he spits.

"It... it wasn't like that..." you sob, tears blinding you.

"Oh yeah? Then what was it? You just naturally learned how to swallow my cock to the hilt? Just swallowed my cum while you were dripping like a bitch?"

You cover your face, choking on a sob. Sukuna waits. Then his grip on your wrist lightens. He lets out a heavy, dirty sigh.

"Go upstairs." His voice is quieter now, but there's still steel beneath it.

He gives you a slight shove toward the stairs.

Your heart pounds in your temples. Your mouth has gone dry. You want to scream, call for Yuji, run back to the people outside—but your feet move anyway.

You run. Faster than if he were dragging you himself. Because the fear and panic inside you are tangled so tightly with the forbidden arousal pulling you under that you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

You’d be lying if you said you didn't want this.

You'd be lying if you said the adrenaline wasn't pulling you toward him.

You rush into your room.

Run.

Move.

Why aren't you moving?

Sukuna follows close behind.

The lock clicks with a dry, terrifying snap.

You stand in the center of the room, gasping.

The window is left slightly ajar, and the boisterous, drunken laughter of your father echoes up from the backyard, mocking your silence. The sunset floods the room in a sickly, golden light.

Sukuna leans his back against the door.

Anyone outside who looks up will see you through the glass. The sheer, reckless audacity of it makes your mind reel with vertigo.

Sukuna takes a step. Then another. He is huge, a dangerous predator filling the space of your clean, quiet bedroom. You back away until your knees hit the mattress.

"Sit," he orders.

You don't move.

Ryomen is enormous, filthy, smelling of the summer heat, beer, and the street. He fills every inch of your quiet bedroom.

"I said, sit."

You drop to the edge, your wet swimsuit leaving a dark, damp stain on the pristine white sheet. He steps in, forcing your knees apart with his legs until you are completely trapped between them.

"So nervous…" A slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You have no idea how much that turns me on."

Sukuna looms over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He doesn't hesitate; he reaches out, slapping your cheek with a casual, stinging disregard before grabbing your chin, forcing your face up to meet his dark, predatory stare.

"Don't be scared, little one," he rasps, his eyes glinting with a savage hunger. "I don't bite. Unless you start begging for it."

His hand moves to the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your damp hair and pulling hard, forcing your cheek against the denim of his crotch. You can feel the heavy, pulsing heat of him—huge and rigid—pressing against your face through the thick fabric.

"I missed you," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

"Sukuna... my dad... he'll come up..." you whimper, your voice breaking.

"Fuck," he growls, his patience fraying. "Quit whining."

His free hand dives under the hem of your top, and with one sharp, violent motion, he yanks the fabric up. Your nipples harden instantly in the cold air.

You instinctively try to cover yourself, but he catches your wrists and pins them firmly to your sides.

He grabs your wrists, pinning them wide, and his fingers squeeze your breast with such punishing intensity that a sharp cry escapes your lips.

He only smirks, reaching behind your neck to jerk the ties of your bikini top free. It falls away, leaving you completely bare before him.

"Come on, brat," he breathes, his eyes darkening to black. "Jerk me off with your tits. Show me you remember how."

His hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head back so you have to look him in the eyes.

"You understand me? Or do I need to knock it into your head?"

Your shaking fingers grab his belt. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and pull it down. His cock falls out heavy, the wet tip glistening in the sunset.

"Don't be shy," he sneers. "Remember how you used to lick it. How deep you’d take it."

You swallow, licking your parched lips. Sukuna snorts mockingly.

"Just do it, I'm tired of waiting."

You cup your breasts in your hands, pressing his shaft firmly between them. The skin is slippery from sweat and leftover pool water; the cock moves easily, with a wet, sliding sound. You speed up the pace, squeezing your palms tighter. Under your hands, he becomes even more tense and aroused.

"Yeah... that’s it, slut... Squeeze harder."

He starts moving his hips to meet you, practically fucking your chest with short, sharp, mechanical thrusts. The belt buckle clinks against the button with every movement, and he pushes deeper, faster.

Downstairs, Yuji’s laughter rings out, oblivious, while inside you, everything is melting into a puddle of shame and hunger. You part your lips, sucking the head on every forward thrust.

"Damn... fuck..." Sukuna rasps. "Yeah, like that... More... I’m gonna..."

He cums just as you take the head into your mouth again. Hot, thick spurts splash across your chest, your neck, coating your chin. He stays there for a long time, his whole body shuddering with every release.

Sukuna finally steps back, breathing heavily. He zips up and looks down at you—disheveled, covered in his essence, and trembling.

"Good job," he huffs, a look of satiated, animal triumph in his eyes. "Obedient little slut."

A large drop of his seed falls onto your navel. Your hand, acting on its own, drops down, your fingers pressing through the soaked fabric of your panties. You are aching with a hunger that doesn't end. He sees it, and his smirk widens.

"What, did you like it when I was rough?"

"No, I...—"

"What 'please'?" He leans in, grabbing your hair, forcing you to look him in the eyes. "Say it. Out loud."

"I want you to fuck me!"

"I thought so."

He throws you onto your back. The mattress squeaks piteously as he bears down on you, pinning you to the bed with his massive body.

"Lie still and don't you dare twitch."

He takes your hands, puts them over your head, and pins them to the pillow with one of his massive palms, stripping you of the slightest chance to defend yourself. You’re completely open and left to his mercy. He tears your panties aside.

His fingers jam inside, relentless, hitting you at full reach. The sound—the wet, rhythmic squelching as you move on your own, grinding against his hand—is enough to snap whatever thin leash he had on his restraint.

"Slut... what a fucking slut you are," he growls through his teeth. He grinds his crotch against your side, his hard, throbbing length pressing through the denim, punishing your bare, wet skin.

"Look at me, fuck," he orders, his free hand clamping around your throat. "Open your eyes, slut, and see who’s fucking you."

He dips his head, his teeth sinking into your skin right over your pulse—a sharp, sudden bite that makes you gasp. He instantly licks the sting with his scorching tongue, sending a violent shiver down your spine.

"Feel how much I want you?" he rasps into your ear. "I want to bury myself in you. But first, you’re gonna come from my fingers. You’re gonna come for me, hear me?"

His movements turn frantic. His thumb hammers against your clitoris with no mercy. You arch into him, your fingers tearing at his shirt. Everything inside you pulls tight, like a wire strung to the breaking point. The tension becomes unbearable, and you explode. A loud scream is drowned in his shoulder, your body goes into convulsions, your inner muscles squeezing his fingers in a death grip.

Sukuna doesn't stop, continuing to move his fingers, wringing the last of the orgasm out of you until you go completely limp, turning into a ragdoll.

He finally pulls his hand out with a wet, heavy sound.

He brings his stained fingers to his lips, watching you with those dark, predatory eyes, and slowly licks them clean.

Sukuna stands up. As his weight leaves the mattress, the room suddenly feels empty. He fastens his belt, the sharp click of the buckle sounding like a death sentence.

"So, how are we supposed to go back downstairs after that?" He sounds lazy, but his eyes burn with triumph. "You smell like me and sex from a mile away, brat."

"Why are you doing this, Sukuna?" Your voice trembles. "Was that night not enough for you?"

He pauses, leaning in so close that the smoke from his cigarette burns your eyes.

"Enough? Brat, it'll never be enough. You brought this on yourself. Remember this: stay the hell away from my brother. You so much as look at him again, and I'll fuck you on his own bed. I don't give a damn who's outside the door."

He strolls to the dresser, lights another cigarette, and exhales a stream of smoke. "What? Not even a 'thank you'?"

You give the smallest nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. "I understand."

"Good girl."

He turns toward the door. It clicks shut behind him, and his footsteps fade. You are left alone, and your gaze drifts to the nightstand. Two crumpled twenty-dollar bills lie there.

Payment. That's all it is.

Nausea crawls up your throat, but the worst part—the part that makes you want to tear yourself apart—is the faint, pulse-like satisfaction still buried deep inside you. Your body has betrayed you.

You grab a wet wipe and, frantically, until your skin is raw and purple, you wipe the semen from your chest and neck, desperately trying to wash away the smell of his tobacco and skin. With trembling fingers, you somehow pull on your wet swimsuit and head down to the backyard.

Suddenly, right by your ear, making your whole body flinch, his low, mocking voice rings out:

"Sweetheart, you forgot to wipe the traces off your chin."

You spin around abruptly. Sukuna is standing a step away from you, demons dancing in his eyes, and on his lips—that same crooked, triumphant smirk. Toji is standing behind him, lazily sipping beer and giving you a sharp, sly once-over from head to toe. He’s clearly in on your "secret."

You jerk your hand up in fear, frantically scrubbing your chin... but your fingers are dry.

There’s nothing there.

He lied.

Just to mock you.

To show that you are completely in his power.

Your face flushes a deep, burning crimson. Sukuna lets out a ringing, mocking laugh. He turns and heads toward the table, his broad back flickering among the guests like a predator returning to his pack.

You watch him walk away, feeling a slow-acting poison spreading through your veins. You feel used, trampled, and dirty. But as you watch him effortlessly take charge, a horrifying thought creeps into your mind: the sun will set, the guests will leave, and somewhere in the parking lot beside the Mustang, a lighter will click again.

And you'll find your way back to him. Because the poison beneath your skin craves only him—and you don't want it to stop.

The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.

You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.

This is familiar ground.

You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.

Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.

You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.

Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.

The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.

It snags on you by accident.

Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.

It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another man’s duty.

He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerion’s mind with a peculiar weight.

You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.

Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.

He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.

He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.

You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.

Aerion’s mouth curves, faintly.

He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.

That night, you think you are alone.

The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.

You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.

Not a sound or movement.

Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.

He stands just inside the door.

Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.

You do not remember hearing it open.

For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.

You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.

“My prince,” you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.

His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.

“So this is where they keep you,” he says mildly.

The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.

You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.

“I- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-”

He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.

“No,” Aerion says softly. “You won’t do that.”

Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesn’t need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.

He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.

“You don’t look like you expected a visitor,” he remarks.

You swallow. “I didn't.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. “You will learn.”

His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.

The shape of how easily you might bend.

You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someone’s niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.

“You don’t even look at me,” he notes.

You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.

He notices that too.

“So sheltered,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “They keep you all soft and unknowing, don’t they?”

Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.

He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.

“I noticed you tonight,” he says, simply.

Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.

“You stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didn’t even realise I was looking at you.” His mouth curves. “That is either very wise or very foolish.”

"I meant no disrespect, my prince"

His hand lifts.

For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.

The touch is light, but the effect is not.

“You will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.”

“You belong,” Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, “to me now.”

The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.

His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.

When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.

"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."

You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.

"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"

"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.

He's a Targaryen prince.

Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?

"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"

The honest answer catches in your throat.

Yes, I'm terrified.

But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.

"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.

His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.

"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."

"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."

He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.

"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?

"Yes, what?"

Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."

"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."

"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.

"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"

The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."

"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."

"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"

"My prince, please-"

"Answer the question."

Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."

"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."

Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"

"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.

You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"

"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"

"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"

"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."

The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.

"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."

His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."

"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.

"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."

His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.

"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.

"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"

"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."

The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.

"Look at me."

You don't want to, you do not know how.

"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.

"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."

The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.

You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.

"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."

He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.

"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"

"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.

"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.

He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.

"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."

Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.

When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.

"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"

You shake your head mutely, face burning.

"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."

When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.

"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."

You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.

When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.

"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."

So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.

"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."

His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.

"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."

Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.

One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."

"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."

His smile is cruel. "We'll see."

He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.

"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."

His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.

"That's it," he encourages darkly.

You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.

"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."

His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.

The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.

"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."

The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.

"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."

He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.

Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.

"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.

"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."

You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."

Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"

He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."

You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"

"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."

He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.

"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."

But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.

"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."

When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.

"Again."

"I'm yours, my prince."

"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."

His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.

It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.

"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."

"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.

"Yes," he counters.

One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.

"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."

Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.

"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."

His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.

He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.

After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.

"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."

You turn your face away, but he's insistent.

"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."

Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.

"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.

He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.

"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"

You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.

And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.

Wanted it.

Wants him still.

"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."

You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.

And there's nothing you can do about it.

It becomes a pattern.

Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.

Aerion comes to you at night.

Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.

You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.

Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.

The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.

He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.

The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.

You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.

Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.

“They would thank me,” he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. “You are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.”

It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.

“You don’t want them to know,” he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. “The court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.”

You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.

Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.

And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.

There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.

In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.

“It suits you,” Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. “This waiting. This quiet obedience.”

You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like being kept,” he adds. “I see the way you look when you hear my steps.”

It is humiliating, how true that is.

“You should be grateful,” he tells you, not unkindly. “I could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.”

You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.

“You are mine,” Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. “And I take care of what belongs to me.”

The arrangement settles into something that feels almost… stable.

It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.

A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.

Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.

It does not work tonight.

You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.

Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.

His eyes find you immediately.

The look is not subtle.

Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.

When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.

The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.

“You’re hiding,” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. “That no longer suits you.”

The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.

Too intimate to be mistaken.

Your heart is hammering. “People are watching.”

“Good,” Aerion says lightly.

He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.

The taboo hums in the air between you.

It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.

There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.

They can only watch.

Aerion’s thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.

“You feel them staring,” he says, a smile in his voice. “You always do.”

You swallow. “This isn’t discreet.”

He laughs quietly. “I’m tired of discreet.”

The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.

You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.

You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.

Aerion does not care.

He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.

Let them see, the look says.

Let them understand what cannot be undone.

The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.

Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.

“You’re done being hidden,” he tells you. “Anyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.”

The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.

The court has already heard it.

“Deal,” you chuckle, the relief evident in your voice. “I’ll see you then, love you.”

The line clicks dead, and the sudden silence of the apartment settles heavily around you. You lower the phone, setting it face down on the kitchen counter. Leaning forward, you prop your elbow on the cool surface and drop your chin into your hand, letting out a long, weary sigh into the empty room.

It wasn’t that you meant to completely isolate yourself from the world; it had just happened gradually. Ever since the messy and abrupt breakup with your ex, Clark Kent, the energy to put yourself out there had completely vanished.

Now, you just didn’t feel like doing anything anymore — no dating, no small talk, no trying to explain your life story to someone new. It was easier to just stay inside, where nobody could ask anything else of you.

You push away from the counter and head straight to the bathroom for an extra long hot shower, letting the water completely wash away the lingering tension you’ve had built up throughout the day.

After putting on your pajamas, you finally crawl into bed and pull your laptop onto your lap. You scroll through your emails you’d been avoiding and sort through the digital clutter of the day, when a sudden sound breaks the quiet of the room.

The room is completely quiet until your phone suddenly lights up on the nightstand, vibrating heavily against the wood as it begins to ring.

You glance over and see the name flashing across the screen makes your chest instantly tighten.

‘Clark (do not answer.)’

For a few heavy seconds, you just stare at it, your brain trying to remind you not to care about what he could possibly be calling you for. But despite the reminder in his contact name, you answer it right before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello?” you squeak.

“Hi,” his voice comes through the receiver, low and familiar enough to send a sharp jolt through you.

An uncomfortable silence falls between you as you anticipate his reasoning for the sudden call.

You swallow hard, gripping the phone a little tighter against your ear. “Can I help you?”

“Well y’know I was just in the neighborhood—” Clark says, his tone carrying a trace of that old, familiar playfulness. You could tell he was smiling on the other end of the line and it made your stomach churn.

“Clark,” you cut him off, your voice dropping into an annoyed, warning flatline.

He sighs, his tone turns quiet and serious, “Right, sorry, I uh, I just wanted to know if you’d be okay with going somewhere and talking for a bit,” His voice tilts up slightly at the end, hesitant and almost nervous as he waits for your answer.

You let out a quiet sigh, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare at the wall, weighing the risk of letting him back in.

“Please?” he adds softly.

God.

The word almost cracks your resolve, a familiar pull tugging at you to just give in. You try to suppress the instinct, before a desperate bit of self-preservation takes over.

“I’m not even home,” you lie, the excuse slipping out at the last second.

“Oh, well your lamp is still on,” he says almost too casually.

“What?” You look over at the nightstand, your heart taking a sudden dive. The lamp is in fact on and casting a warm glow across your bedroom. “How do you even know that?”

“Because I’m outside your window.” He speaks like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You drop the laptop onto the mattress, scramble across the blankets, and quickly yank open the curtains. Down on the sidewalk, standing right under the glow of the streetlamp, is Clark. He looks up, locks eyes with you through the glass, and offers a little wave, that familiar dimply smile cutting through the dark.

“Oh, there you are,” his voice crackles through the phone. He doesn’t even care that you just lied about not being home.

All you can do is stare down at him for a moment in disbelief.

Instead of heading down to meet him, you let out a sharp breath into the receiver. “Just come up.”

It doesn’t take long until that familiar, heavy-handed knock sounds against the wood of your front door. You scurry over, your pulse quickening, but you don’t unlock it all the way.

The door jolts to a sudden stop after a few inches, held fast by the taut metal link. Clark is standing under the dim hallway light, looking a little tired but searching your face through the narrow vertical gap. The chain hangs rigidly between you, a stark, physical boundary slicing the space between your two faces.

“Yes?” you ask, your tone flat.

“So?” Clark replies, tilting his head slightly, waiting for an answer.

“So.….what?”

“I asked if we could talk, maybe walk around for a bit,” he reiterates softly, his voice trailing off towards the end .

You analyze him, head to toe, through the slender gap of the door, taking a second to really think about it. He stands there anxiously waiting, looking like an expectant, hopeful stray, dressed in a layered brown sweater, jeans, and a matching brown leather belt. His hair is slightly disheveled due to walking in the evening wind. His glasses serve as a familiar disguise that feels almost absurdly endearing given what you know about his true identity.

You find yourself wishing he didn’t look the way he did, possessing that effortless, frustrating pull. Huffing out a breath in defeat, you squint your eyes at him.

“Hold on.”

You shut the door on his face, the latch clicking back into place. Leaning your back against the solid wood, you press a palm over your face and close your eyes.

Pushing yourself off your door, you travel around the bedroom, grabbing a light jacket to throw over your pajamas and sliding your feet into a pair of shoes.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror but don’t bother lingering for too long. It would be entirely redundant to try and fix your hair or throw on a bit of makeup considering he’s seen you in every way. All of you, in every way.

When you walk back to the door and reach for the doorknob, you pause, deliberately forcing yourself to wait so you don’t seem too eager to let him in.

After a few added seconds, you swing the door open quickly.

The sudden movement makes Clark snap his head up from where he had been staring at the floor. The second he locks eyes with you, that dumb, endearing smile instantly spreads across his face.

Stop.

“Where are we going?” you ask, pulling your jacket a little tighter around yourself.

“Just a walk around the block, if that’s okay?” His voice is soft, leaving the decision entirely up to you.

You give a brief, silent nod and step out into the hallway, pulling the apartment door shut behind you.

The walk down to the elevator is quiet, and once the aged, metal doors slide shut, the small space suddenly feels incredibly tight. You keep your eyes glued straight ahead, staring intently at the illuminated floor numbers so you don’t make any eye contact whatsoever.

But without even looking, you can still feel the heavy weight of his attention. In your peripheral, you notice him awkwardly shifting, his eyes drifting over to look down at you at least twice, testing the quiet between you.

When the doors finally slide open, you step out into the lobby. Walking side by side, you make your way across the floor and push through the heavy front doors of the building, stepping out into the cool, quiet night air.

What starts out as a hesitant lap around the block slowly stretches out, your quiet footsteps naturally guiding them into the grass-lined paths of the nearby park.

You tried your absolute hardest to stay closed off, keeping your arms crossed and your answers short, but you forgot how hard that can be when you’re around him. He just has an innate warmth to him that makes it impossible to stay guarded for long; it doesn’t take anyone long to feel comfortable around him.

As you keep walking, the conversation naturally drifts into the heavier stuff.

It starts with a few hesitant, awkward apologies, where both of you trip over your words as you try to find the right things to say.

You even find yourselves talking about the lingering regrets you’ve both been carrying around internally. It’s clunky and a little uncomfortable at first, but airing out the past brings a strange, quiet relief to the space between you.

Soon you reach your apartment building again. You push through the heavy doors and step into the elevator, the quiet of the lobby following you inside. Of course, you’re not surprised when you realize that Clark is staying with you until he sees you enter your apartment. It’s always been a habit of his so he knows you’re safe.

The ride up is a bit different this time. Instead of purposefully ignoring Clark’s gaze, you both keep glancing over at each other. Right as the elevator passes the halfway point, you both look up at the exact same time. Your eyes lock, and the sudden, intense eye contact sends a jolt through the quiet space.

You both quickly break away, snapping your focus down to the ground. The easy energy from the park instantly disappears and is replaced by a sudden wave of awkwardness as you both start shifting your weight and adjusting your jackets, completely unsure of what to do with your hands.

The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open, releasing you both from the small, confined box. You walk down the carpeted hallway until you’re standing right outside your door, it was a spot you two were very familiar with.

“Thank you for the talk,” you say softly, the honesty in your voice surprising even yourself. “It was definitely needed.”

Clark shrugs his shoulders and that quiet warmth returns to his eyes. “It was no problem,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “Really.”

You exchange your final ‘goodbye’s’ and Clark turns on his heels and heads toward the elevator. You slip inside your apartment, lock the door, and let out a long breath, leaning your forehead against the wood.

Standing in the quiet entryway, you feel it — that fuzzy sensation pulling right in the center of your chest. You absolutely hate that it's still lingering, even after everything that happened between you. You close your eyes, shaking your head aggressively as if you could physically knock the feeling out of your system.

Before you can even take a step towards the bedroom, a violent rumble of thunder rattles the walls and a massive downpour starts absolutely slamming against the glass.

You rush over to the window, parting the curtains and looking straight down at the sidewalk.

Right under the streetlamp — the same spot he was in previously — Clark is caught in the rain. He is completely drenched, his hair flat and sopping on his head, and his brown sweater has grown heavier (not that he noticed). He just accepts it and just hunches his shoulders, looking entirely miserable as he starts a slow trudge down the sidewalk.

You watch him for a few seconds, completely defeated.

He is so ridiculous, you think. You know he could easily outrun the clouds, but Clark Kent has to walk in the rain.

You yank the window open, the cool, wet wind blowing against your face.

“Clark!” you shout down into the street, throwing your voice over the sound of the storm.

He snaps his head up, squinting through the downpour as he looks up at your floor.

“Come back!” you yell, gesturing aggressively towards the building. He nods quickly, turning on his heel to sprint back inside.

You mentally go over the timeline of him crossing the lobby, waiting on the elevator and riding it back up to your floor.

By the time the distant ding! of the elevator echoes down the hallway, you can't even pretend to be casual anymore. You unlock the door and swing it wide open before he can even make it halfway down the corridor.

Clark quickly steps past you, slipping inside the warm apartment to get out of the open hallway. The heavy door clicks shut behind him, and only then do you turn to really look at him.

He looks pitiful. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, his glasses are so fogged up and covered in droplets that it’s a miracle he can even see, and that heavy brown sweater is already dripping small puddles onto the entryway floor.

The second he clears the water from his eyes and looks at you, his face lights up, and that same hopeful, dumb smile cuts right through the rain dripping down his cheeks.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a little breathless as he stays firmly planted by the mat, hyperaware of the soggy mess he’s making.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” your eyes catch the dripping knit fabric. “You’re getting my carpet all wet,” you chuckle.

“Right, yeah,” he quickly kicks off his soaked shoes and nudges them onto the mat.

You gesture toward the bathroom door. “Just hand me the wet stuff and I’ll get you something dry.”

You stand outside the bathroom door, waiting in the quiet hallway as the sound of wet fabric rustling echoes from inside.

A moment later, the door cracks open, and Clark reaches out to hand you a heavy, waterlogged bundle of his soaked sweater and jeans.

When the door swings open just a few inches, you see it — the clear sliver of his bare torso through the gap. Your eyes drift instantly across the solid line of his broad shoulders and down the damp curve of his chest. The sheer frame of him fills the doorway, and your gaze linger for a beat too long before your mouth goes completely dry, forcing you to snap your focus back up to his face.

Clearing your throat, you take the dripping pile with one hand and quickly extend the dry bundle you pulled from your dresser — his old white t-shirt and dark sweatpants that was left behind months ago back when staying over was a regular thing.

Clark takes the clothes through the crack in the door, his fingers brushing against the worn, familiar fabric. There’s a heavy beat of total silence from inside the bathroom as he recognizes what you just handed him.

“I was wondering where these went,” his voice is quiet as if he’s talking to himself.

Once he’s dressed, Clark steps back into the living room, cleaning his glasses with the bottom of his shirt that was now lifted just enough to give you a perfect view of his happy trail.

Stop staring.

He slows his steps when he sees the couch. You’ve set up a pillow and folded a few heavy blankets across the cushions for him.

Outside the window, the storm continues into the pitch-black night. With the weather tearing through the streets at this hour, it would be ridiculous for him to even attempt walking home — superpowers or not. So letting him sleep on the couch is the only sensible option left.

“I’d feel super guilty letting you walk home in that,” you say, gesturing toward the heavy rain hammering against the living room window.

Clark rubs the back of his neck, giving you a small, humble smile. “Oh, I’d be fine really,” he says, his voice quiet. ‘I’ve walked in worse,”

His words say one thing, but his body language says another. He makes absolutely zero move toward the front door.

He isn’t reaching for his wet jacket, he isn’t checking his watch, and he certainly isn’t looking for his shoes. For someone claiming he’d be fine walking out into a torrential downpour, he seems remarkably content standing right where he is.

“Okay, well,” you say, clearing your throat. “You know where everything is.”

You pull off a quick shrug, trying your best to seem casual and completely unaffected — as if having your ex-boyfriend standing in your living room at night were the most routine thing in the world

The awkward silence in the apartment lets every buried thought and quiet memory rush to the forefront of your brain.

Panic creeps up your chest. Wanting nothing more than to put a solid wall between yourself and the constant reminder of his presence, you pivot toward your bedroom.

You start at a normal walk, but within two steps, your feet pick up a frantic pace. You practically power-walk down the short hallway, desperately hoping Clark’s sharp eyes don’t catch the absurd speed at which you’re retreating into your room.

You leave the door pulled shut, but leave it cracked open just a tiny sliver. As you crawl into bed and pull the blankets all the way up to your chin, you squeeze your eyes shut with absolute determination. You try to focus on the steady pattern of your breathing, desperately trying to drown out the noise in your head.

Through the narrow gap in the door, the subtle sounds of Clark settling in drift through the dark space. The quiet creak of the sofa cushions as his heavy frame sinks into them. The soft rustle of the blanket being pulled over his shoulders. A long, weary exhale that cuts through the quiet room.

At least forty five whole minutes stretch on, each one feeling longer than the last. You toss, turn, and stare at the thin strip of pale light cutting across your ceiling, but sleep remains completely out of reach.

Coincidentally, Clark is actually having the same problem.

He’s lying flat on his back, staring up at your living room ceiling with his hands tucked behind his head, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy rhythm. The old white t-shirt smells faintly like your detergent, and every time he inhales, it pulls him right back to every night he spent under this roof.

His mind drifts back to the nights you used to share. He could never forget how pretty you’d look when you were all flushed and unraveled in his arms.

He also remembers how soft and sweet you are. If he told you that he had been with another woman since you’d split, he’d be lying.

Just the thought of it makes him sick.

And of course tonight you looked perfect — your cheeks blushing a subtle hint of pink when he caught you off guard, the small line between your brows when you furrowed your brows at him. Even with all the walls you’ve put up between you, you still manage to drive him crazy.

The constant chatter in his brain pulls a heavy breath from his chest, making the space between you feel thin.

Oh no.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight and groans in frustration quietly as that familiar warmth flows straight through his veins and pools low in his stomach.

He yanks one of the pillows from behind his head and buries it firmly over his lap, pressing it down against his growing erection as if physical force alone could force his body to stop.

It backfires completely. The added friction and weight only makes it worse, sending a sharp jolt straight to his core. Overwhelmed by the sensation, his hips instinctively push up against the soft pillow, seeking even a fraction of relief for the ache building inside him.

He freezes the second he hears the couch springs shift beneath him, holding his breath as he listens intently toward your cracked bedroom door, praying you didn’t hear him lose a fight to himself.

Of course, you would hear him if you weren’t getting all hot and bothered yourself.

You’re completely rigid under the covers, a pillow wedged firmly between your legs as you clutch the edge of the mattress. You fight the overwhelming urge to slide your hand down and touch herself the way you wish he could.

You shut your eyes and bite down hard on your lower lip to keep your breathing steady. You know that if you gave in, or let your breathing hitch, he would instantly hear every single second of it.

For a few agonizing minutes, Clark stays on the couch, silently rocking his hips up against the pillow in a desperate attempt to work off the unbearable friction burning through his flannel pajama pants.

He sighs in defeat and runs a clammy hand down his face.

Fuck it.

A spark of courage settles in his chest and he quietly pads across the dark living room and towards your bedroom.

He stands in the doorway, watching you in the dim light for a few quiet seconds before sneaking inside. You hear him quietly call out your name, causing you to immediately close your eyes and pretend to be sound asleep.

He walks farther into your room, his sock clad feet making no sound against the floor as he walks closer to the side of the bed, pausing right beside you to silently observe your face in the dim light.

His eyes drift across your sleeping figure in the dark, unable to look away from how soft and pretty you look in the low light.

You try your best not to tense your muscles as he runs his fingers gently down your bare shoulder, the warm tips tracing the curve of your skin.

His breathing turns shallow as the touch sends another wave of heat straight to his gut. Keeping his eyes fixed on your quiet face, he reaches down with his other hand, carefully palming himself through the fabric of his boxers, slowly relieving the throbbing pressure.

As his fingertips travel lower, tracing down your bare skin and towards your hips, you carefully crack your eyes open.

“I know what you’re doing, Clark,” you blurt out into the dark.

The words instantly cut through the quiet room, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his breath hitches, and his fingers keep moving against your soft skin, unable to draw away.

“M’ sorry,” he whispers, his lips now brushing your arm. “I missed you so much,”

His palm slides slowly along your side, his pulse hammering against your skin as he leans down, his mouth just inches from your ear.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes. “Just tell me to stop, and I will.”

You turn around on the mattress, your eyes locking onto his in the dim light for a beat.

He opens his mouth to speak again but before he can say another word, you reach up to grab the front of his shirt, pulling him down into a kiss.

Clark’s knees almost buckle beneath him, his legs going weak as his lips meet yours. He completely melts into you as you pull him upward, easily guiding his weight until he’s positioned right on top of you.

He presses his broad palm flat against your chest, his fingers spreading over your sternum as his lips drag deeply against yours. The rapid pulse of your heart thuds into his hand, matching the wild pace of his own.

“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmurs against your mouth, his voice breathy before he leans back in to capture your lips again.

“So is yours,” you whisper back, allowing your tongues to tangle together in a deep, intoxicating rhythm.

Clark ruts his hard cock firmly up against your cunt. The tip catches directly against your clit, sending a sharp wave of pleasure straight through you that draws out an involuntary whine.

“Do you want me?” he asks, his breath hot against your neck as he grinds into you again.

You were too far gone to realize that you were letting Clark back in almost too easily, but with the way he was pressed so perfectly against you, he’s the only thing you need right now.

“Yes,” you gasp out, clutching his shoulders. “Right now.”

Clark groans at your words, sliding his hand up under your shirt to cup your breast, massaging it firmly. His big, warm hand pulls a loud moan from your throat, your hips bucking up against his.

He moves his lips down your body until he reaches your cunt. He quickly works off your shorts and buries his face against your center, taking in a deep, unsteady breath of your scent.

He lets out a soft whine, leaning down to press slow, warm kisses directly against the fabric of your panties. His hands move to the elastic, gently sliding the fabric down your legs until they’re discarded somewhere in the dark.

His finger trails down your slick heat, tracing your wetness in an agonizingly slow stroke. He looks down at your folds, his voice barely a breath as he whispers, “Hi, pretty girl,” unabashedly to your cunt.

You feel his lips press a slow, wet kiss directly against your pussy, letting his warm breath linger for a second before his tongue swirls out to flick right against your clit.

He dives in, fully eating you out with pure need. His hands grip the undersides of your thighs, planting his thumbs firmly into your skin to hold you locked in place so there's no chance of escape.

Your fingers weave their way to his dark hair, gripping tight as he licks and laps into you without missing a single beat.

Two thick fingers slide deep inside of you, instantly hooking right where you need them. He presses his weight into the bed, completely shameless as he begin to hump the mattress, the thick swell of his cock grinding against the sheets right beside your thigh.

“Clark, I’m gonna- ‘M cumming,” you gasp out, your fingers tightening in his dark hair as the rubber band in your belly finally snaps.

“Mhm, mhm,” he murmurs against your skin, not slowing down for a single second. He holds you steady, helping you ride out every last ripple of your high.

After littering your inner thighs with a few more kisses, he starts to push himself up, but your hands immediately catch him to halt his movement.

“Still need you,” you whine as your hand drifts straight down between his legs to wrap firmly around his cock.

He smiles, a breathy chuckle slips past his lips. “Oh, baby,”

He leans back up, pressing a sweet kiss right against the corner of your mouth before kicking off his pajama pants and boxers to free himself.

He slowly drags the length of his cock up and down along your folds to collect your wetness.

“Are you sure? Use words pretty,” he asks as he taps his tip against your clit a few times. You can tell by the dimples peeking for the upteenth time tonight that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“C’mon Clark,” The impatient tone in your voice leaves no room for debate.

A quiet chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Sorry,” he murmurs, taking a breath before lining himself back up and steadily sinking all the way inside.

“Biiiig stretch, there you go honey,” A sharp, synchronized moan breaks through the quiet room as he fills you up completely.

He rests his forehead pressed against your shoulder as you both take a few seconds to really feel each other.

“Clark, please move,” you whisper into his shoulder, the soft plea breaking through the quiet room.

“Hold on...just give me a second,” he mutters, his voice a little strained and gritty.

His whole body is rigid over yours as he shuts his eyes, concentrating with everything he’s got just to keep from busting right then and there. His hands grip the sheets beside your head, knuckles turning white as he takes a few slow, steadying breaths into your skin, trying to catch his control.

He mumbles a quiet ‘okay’ to himself before slowly rocking his hips into yours. His cock deliciously drags along your walls in a way that you had craved for far too long.

The slow, cautious pace vanishes as he suddenly picks up speed, driving into you with a desperate rhythm that has both of your hips snapping together in quick, breathless bursts.

His lips find yours again, capturing them in an urgent kiss. Every deep thrust pulls needy whines straight from both of your throats, muffled against each other's mouths.

Your hand drifts back down between your bodies, fingers finding where you both connect, feeling every inch of his length working in and out of you.

Clark shifts, leaning back just enough to look down at your stomach, his eyes locking onto that familiar, distinct bulge beneath your skin.

“Look,” he whispers as he reaches down with his hand. “Forgot about that,”

He presses his palm down firm against the swell, and the sudden, intense pressure sends a helpless, high-pitched mewl straight out of your throat, your hips instinctively arching up into his touch.

The headboard thumps loud and hard against the wall with every single stroke, a heavy, rhythmic banging that’s definitely going to bring in some noise complaints from the neighbors.

It doesn't even matter. You’re way too far gone to care, legs wrapped tight around his wide waist as he jackhammers into you, completely lost in the static fuzz that filled your brain.

“I missed you,” he pants against your ear, the pace not slowing for a second. “I know you did too, I can feel it,”

Clark’s words pour out into a mindless, frantic babble, the words tumbling out raw and unstructured between hard thrusts. “I should've done better, fuck, I know I should’ve. I’ll do better for you, I promise, if you’ll let me, please,”

You can’t even assemble a proper sentence. Your brain is completely fried from feeling his cock punching into that spongy spot inside of you over and over again. All you can manage is a series of nonsensical nods, letting out weak, incoherent noises.

You both hit the edge at the same time, and Clark can feel your walls starting to clench tight around him with every shuddering breath.

He reaches further down between your legs and tweaks your clit.

The sharp, intense bolt of electricity makes you clench around him even harder, almost locking him in place. Clark lets out a harsh, guttural groan, his jaw tight as he tries to hold back for two more seconds.

“Where do you want it, hurry,” he grunts, his voice completely wrecked.

“Inside,” you gasp out, barely able to force the word past your lips.

The second the word leaves your mouth, he buries himself as deep as he can go and spills inside of you.

“It’s all yours, m’all yours,” he slurs against your skin, filling you up as your whole body shatters in a synchronized, overwhelming climax that leaves you both shattered.

You both lay there in the quiet room, chests heaving as you breathe heavily against each other.

Clark slowly pulls out, shifting over to the nightstand to pluck a few tissues from the box. You lie entirely limp and exhausted as he gently cleans you both up.

He reaches over the edge of the bed and scoops your panties from the floor along with his own boxers. He slips your underwear back onto your hips before pulling his on. He then finds your shirt, holding it in front of you.

“Arms.”

Without even having to process the thought, you sit up and automatically raise your arms so he can slide the fabric back over your head and shoulders. It all comes so naturally, a familiar routine your body has known a thousand times before.

He settles back down at your side, wrapping his arms around you to pull you flush against his chest, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple as your breathing finally begins to slow.

As the days of the new semester grew, you got more and more curious about the cute nerd in your Biology 101 class. He had a scar on his lips, raven hair, and these adorable glasses that definitely didn’t fit. You’ve only heard him speak a few times. He only ever spoke in class when he was called on, and when he was, he answered correctly, exuding confidence. The professor constantly applauded him for his work and even asked him to help out during her office hours. You considered showing up just out of pure curiosity, but decided against it. You didn’t want to stare at him like an obsessive loser. But an opportunity to talk to him fell on your lap on a random Tuesday afternoon.

During the third week of class, your professor announced something: everyone would sit alphabetically in the class for the next few days as she got used to everyone's names. This earned a few groans from the people who wanted to sit next to their friends, but she assured them it would be temporary.

“Everyone, everyone,” the room quieted down at her voice, “It won’t last too long. We just have one lab to complete then I should have everyone’s names down a few days after that. I’ve been struggling these past two weeks.” She looked down at her clipboard and moved to the first pair of chairs. “Now, let's start. Does anyone know if…” She called names one by one to show them their temporary seats. You didn’t know anyone in the class to begin with so you weren’t too bothered. Though, you’ve never heard of a college class that had a seating chart. That was definitely a first. And by the sounds of it, no one else had either. How bad could her memory be?

Lost in thought, you didn’t even realize when she called your name to be seated next. You blinked in confusion before realizing that she was assigning you to a seat. You mumbled an apology under your breath before sitting down. You exhaled, slightly embarrassed at your delayed reaction. Zoning out at the worst times seemed to be your strong suit. As you pulled out your textbook, you didn’t listen to hear who would be your shoulder partner. You looked up to see Toji, aka the guy you’ve been staring at for two weeks from across the room instead of paying attention to lecture, sitting right beside you. You quickly averted your gaze to recover from your shock. It was pure luck really, getting to sit next to him for the next few days, even if it was by force. He gave you a small nod of acknowledgement and you gave him an awkward smile back before quickly turning your head away.  Smooth, you thought to yourself, now he’ll think you’re creepy. Professor Nolan finished up the seating chart and brought up the upcoming lab.

“Our first lab will be tomorrow, and yes, your partner is who you’re sitting next to. It’s simple and it’s on everything we’ve covered this past week and a half. I’ll pass out the procedure.” She grabbed a stack of papers and started to give a small stack to each column. She handed Toji a stack and he handed you a packet. His hand brushed yours slightly, and your stomach lurched. His face remained neutral and he turned around to hand the rest of the lab procedures to the students behind you. You spent the rest of the lecture silently scolding yourself for getting so delusional over a guy that you didn’t know. The walk back to your car was one of shame. You hated how excited you got over things, especially since you got disappointed just as quickly. Sure, he was cute, but at the end of the day, he was just a guy. You reminded yourself of this and pushed it out of your mind. Tomorrow, you’d just focus on the first lab of the class. There was no need for unnecessary distractions.

You had spoken too soon. There was a need for distractions. They were very, very necessary. Especially if it entailed your cute lab partner walking you through the lab.

“You left your lab procedure on the desk. I tried to call after you, but you didn’t turn back.” He explained with a shrug. “No worries though, if you get stuck, I can try my best to explain it to you.”

You nodded, embarrassment creeping in. No way you were idiotic enough to leave your lab procedure behind. What a horrible first impression. “I’m so sorry, I’m not usually like this I—”

He shook his head and handed the packet to you. “No need to worry, I got you.” 

You nodded again, shutting up this time. Your eyes scanned the page, taking in what you had missed the previous night. It seemed simple enough, but it was your first lab. It had already started off on not the best foot… you couldn’t mess up again. A wave of determination washed over you. If he wasn’t bothered by your small slip up, why should you? The two of you prepared your station in silence before starting. It was a human cheek microscopic lab where you scrape the inside of your cheek, smear the swab onto a glass slide, add a drop of methylene blue stain, and cover it with a slip. You then observe under the microscope and take note of the structures. Simple stuff, really. The only annoying part was extracting the sample.

The two of you got to work immediately. You scraped your cheek with the toothpick, and in the process, poked it. You yelped and pressed your tongue against the spot. A metallic taste soaked your tongue and you groaned softly. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You were usually great at labs, always taking them on with intense focus. An easy one like this shouldn’t be tripping you up, but here you were. You shot a glance at Toji and found him laughing quietly to himself. You glared at him, narrowing your eyes.

“Not funny,” you mumbled, tongue still applying pressure to the area you accidentally punctured. 

His grin grew even wider. “I dunno…it kind of is…How does one even achieve that?” He pressed his lips together to stop himself from laughing again. Your frown deepened at his reaction. He was actually laughing in your face. This was another level of obnoxious, this was plain mean. You went silent throughout the smearing and staining process, ego a little wounded at his blatant taunting. You didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or annoyed. You went with being annoyed; he said he’d help you out, not make fun of you.

When it was time to observe under the microscope, you let him go first. You watched him closely, the different expressions he’d make, the notes he’d take, and the small sounds of content he’d let out. You found it all amusing. He acted all mysterious, but the whole time, he was really just a weirdo that got very pleased when things went as he predicted. His drawings were so accurate, it was scary. He moved away from the microscope and gave you a cocky smile. There was no way you were beating that. Not that it was a competition or anything. You snuck a glance at him. He was watching you carefully. Maybe it was a competition and you didn’t know it. You swallowed hard before adjusting the settings as needed. The cells looked cool: their irregular shapes were highlighted with a vibrant blue from the stain. You zoomed in more to be able to see the cell structures better. From there, you could start to sketch your observations. You grabbed your pencil and lightly glided your pencil across the paper, careful to write lightly enough so you could correct any mistakes. You fell into a comfortable rhythm, looking into the microscope, and pulling away to add to your paper. You felt Toji watching you like a hawk from the side, but you still took your time. Within a few minutes, you were done with your sketches. You checked your work and grinned. Not too bad.

You felt someone shift behind you. You looked over your shoulder and found Toji there, sneaking a peek at your paper. He had a bored expression on his face and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be perfect, it was a sketch after all. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘not bad.’” He repeated before grabbing his notebook and walking off to start cleanup. You furrowed your brows in confusion. He was being nice again? What happened to being obnoxious and annoying? You scoffed and joined him. The two of you cleaned up your station and went your separate ways. You took the long way to your car, still in need of processing that entire lab period. The reassurance in the beginning, laughing at you making a small mistake, and giving you a half assed compliment to top it all off. You decided he was too cocky for his own good. He knew he was smart, he knew that he was better, and he let it get to his head. Sort of. He was still somewhat nice. Whatever it was, you only had to deal with him for a few more days. The first and only lab was out of the way. In retrospect, the worst had already passed.

Your stomach rumbled and you stopped in your tracks. After fumbling around in your bag, you realized you forgot to pack lunch today. You muttered curses under your breath as you turned around and headed to the college cafe. You weren’t this scatterbrained. Before today, you can’t remember the last time you forgot anything, especially of great importance like your lunch or schoolwork.

You walked into the cafe and went to the counter to order your usual: a grilled cheese sandwich with sourdough bread and the juice of the day. Today’s juice of the day was mango, Paige, the barista informed you. You paid and looked for a place to sit. The cafe was pretty much empty except for a few students on their computers. One person in the corner caught your eye though. You could recognize those scarred lips anywhere. His eyes locked with yours and you froze, quickly looking away. You snuck another glance and he was still staring. He raised an eyebrow at you and gestured for you to join him. You pressed your lips in a firm line before slowly walking over. Dropping your bag on the ground, you took the seat across from him. You felt his eyes studying you carefully again like they had less than an hour ago, making your stomach twist in knots. Trying to figure him out made your head spin. Never in a million years would you have expected him to invite you over to sit with him…it just didn't work like that. At least, not in your head anyway.

“You’re everywhere,” he said simply, taking a sip of his drink. “Oh, by the way, it’s good. Fresh and all.”

You shot him a bewildered look. “What?”

He pointed to his drink with a slightly annoyed look on his face. “The juice of the day? That’s the drink you ordered, no?”

You blinked at him, his words barely processing in your head. How long had he been watching you for? You just noticed that he was here. You frowned and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” you responded flatly. You didn’t mean to be rude, but he was getting on your last nerves. That's what you got for putting a stranger on a pedestal, they’ll always end up not meeting your unrealistic expectations and disappointing you.

He sighed, deep green eyes boring into yours. “You know, for someone who stared at me for two weeks straight without saying a word, you sure don’t have a lot to say now that we’ve actually met.” Toji chuckled as you gaped at him, taking another sip of his juice. “But hey, to each their own.”

You were speechless. The entire first week, he was at one end of the room and you were in the opposite, in a corner at that. Same for the second. How he knew you’d look at him, you had no idea. His back was to you 99% of the time too…was he bluffing? No, that was way too specific and accurate to be a bluff. Maybe you weren't as subtle as you thought.

The barista called your name for your order and you shot up from your seat. You took your sweet time: making small talk with her again, checking to see if it was your name on it, if you got the right sandwich, and sipping your juice to see how it tasted. He was right—it was fresh, the tangy taste dancing on your tongue. You needed a second to mentally prepare yourself. Facing him after him confronting you and your staring problem made you want to puke. What do you even say to that? Do you just gaslight him until he believes you? You doubt he would though, he was way too arrogant to give you the benefit of the doubt or even just to let it go and move on. You slowly made your way back to your seat. He looked at you expectantly as you took another sip of your juice.

“It’s good, you were right.” You muttered, not meeting his eyes.

“I know,” he shrugged. You didn’t like this, not one bit. He was nothing like you had expected at all. Sure, it was counterproductive to fit people into boxes based on their appearances, but you've never met anyone that carried themselves like this. Though you hated to admit it, you were intrigued. Why did he call you over here? You were classmates, he had no obligation to invite you to sit with him. And you still didn’t know how he knew you would stare at him the first few weeks…

“You were staring at me too, weren’t you?” you blurted out. For the first time ever, Toji was stunned. He didn’t know how to respond to the question—or, better yet—the right answer to it. You watched as he struggled to approach your question. You could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“What makes you think that?” He finally decided on. Safe, yes, but playing dumb wasn’t always reliable.

“How else would you know I was staring at you?” You replied. Not your strongest point, you admit, but it was what was at the front of your mind. 

“Well, for starters, you aren’t the most subtle person to grace this Earth,” he shot back. You narrowed your eyes at his deflection, but this only proved you were getting warmer.

“Aw, are you saying that my presence makes the Earth a better place ‘ji?” You asked sweetly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that why you’ve been staring at me?” Your tone was so condescending you swore you saw his eye twitch.

“Don’t call me that,” he grumped. You giggled at his frustration and took a sip of your drink.

“Mmmmm,” you groaned dramatically. He glared at you from above his glasses. “Is this why you asked me to sit with you?” You stirred your juice with your straw, the ice cubes clinking together. His eyes followed the movement. Would he take the bait?

“...What do you mean?” He asked reluctantly. You could practically feel his discomfort. It loomed over his head, forcing him to engage in your shenanigans. It killed him to entertain your antics, but he couldn’t bear not knowing what you were going on about.  

“You heard I ordered the same drink as you, so you called me over to sit with you.” You replied. Obviously, that’s not what you believed, but you had to point out how ridiculous all this was. All this game playing, and for what?

“No, of course not. Don't be stupid.” He said with a scowl, mouth turning into a frown, like just the idea alone personally offended him.

“So you have been staring at me too then? I didn’t even notice you were here until I was looking for a place to sit,” you challenged. You were regaining confidence now, determined to pull this confession out of him. He wasn’t going to get out of this. You felt like you were going crazy before, you were glad to know you weren’t alone.

“Does it even matter?” He sighed, failing to meet your eyes.

“Yes,” you insisted.

“Why?” He countered.

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Answer the damn question. Then I can tell you why it matters,” you hissed. You took a bite of your sandwich as he hesitated. You ate in silence, waiting for him to figure out what he was going to say. The sandwich was half gone and the glass of fresh mango juice completely empty by the time he finally cleared his throat.

“To put it simply, yes I was staring—when you weren't looking at least. That’s why I invited you to sit here. But—” He raised his hands up in surrender. “I swear I had nothing to do with us sitting together. That was pure luck.”

You laughed at how terrified he was. Like he actually believed you thought he blackmailed your strict professor or something to get you guys to sit together. This was ridiculous. You laughed over the stupidity of it all and he tilted his head at you in confusion.

“Well duh, I know that. It’s not like you built a time machine and changed my last name to be right next to yours on the roster.”

He let out a sigh of relief. “Okay good. I’m not a creep. It was just a coincidence. So was the cafe, I assume?” He asked, now putting you on the spot. “Or are you stalking me?”

It was now your turn to be stunned into silence. You really hoped he was joking. “Give me the same grace. It was a coincidence. I was hungry, so I stopped here for a quick bite to eat. If you hadn’t called me over, I’d have left by now.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, smirking at your bewildered state. Reality finally crashed down on you—you guys have been playing eye tag this whole time, but you kept missing each other. Even though he got on your nerves—slightly—this was the best case scenario. You were both losers with a staring problem.

“So what now?” you asked before you could stop yourself. You regretted it immediately, especially as you watched his curiosity pique. He was either going to tease you beyond belief, or be completely honest with you like he had before. It was a gamble you weren’t sure you were ready to take, but it was too late. He studied the grimace on your face and nodded.

“I mean—based on this conversation, it’s safe to say there’s a mutual interest here so…I think it would be appropriate to ask you out.”

You blinked at him. Did he just ask you out without asking you? He winced at your unamused expression and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Er, sorry, I mean…would you like to go out with me sometime?”

“We’re technically out together right now if you really think about it,” you replied, pressing your lips together to suppress the smile creeping on your face. You weren’t going to let him off the hook that easily. Who did you take you for?

“Well no shit, but like another time if you wa—”

“I’m just messing with you. Of course I would like that.”

He stopped his rambling and smiled at you, really smiled at you. It reached his eyes and you decided right then and there, you wanted to be on the receiving end of more smiles from this man. God knows they were scarce, but when they did come out, they made your heartbeat pound like a drum in your ears and caused butterflies to fill your stomach. You knew immediately that they didn’t show up for just anyone, and that alone confirmed any suspicion you had about him liking you too. 

“Hey, you never explained why it mattered so much,” he said suddenly. Your eyes locked with him and you swore time stopped. The noise of the cafe faded in the background as the two of you held each other’s gaze. Blood rushed to your cheeks, the intensity of his gaze being too much. You were the one to break eye contact, twisting your hands in your lap nervously.

“Because,” you said pointedly, but there was no real bite in your voice. “The feeling’s mutual.”

There it was again. Another one of his rare smiles. Your eyes landed on his scar and you instinctively reached forward. He didn’t flinch or move away. He stilled as you traced it, fingertips ghosting over his skin.

“How did you get this?” You murmured softly. He avoided eye contact and grabbed your wrist gently. 

“That’s a story for another time.” He said firmly, though, he didn’t remove your hand. “I’ll tell it to you though, I promise.” He swallowed hard and held your gaze. In the quiet of your own little bubble, you whispered to him softly, things only for his ears. The rest of the world faded away as the two of yours started to grow and blossom.

Your first real date was as soon as later that week after class. He walked you to your car and sent you an ominous text once you got home.

toji: I’ll pick you up at 4pm.

toji: It’ll be a little cold inside, so wear long sleeves.

toji: And pants.

You snorted at that text. Did he expect you to pull up half naked?

toji: As in long pants. Of course you’ll wear pants. Duh. 

toji: Don’t laugh, you know what I mean. Shut up, stop laughing at me.

You laughed even harder. Underneath all of his cockiness and arrogance, Toji was really just a huge dork and it only came out in moments like these. Whenever you’d point it out, he’d get all grumpy and insist he’s not a dork—but if he was—that they are over hated. You always countered and said that that’s something a dork would say.

At 4pm at the dot, he picked you up in his white sedan. The inside of his car was very tidy. You wondered if it was always like this, or if he cleaned it up just because you’d be in it. You imagined a timid Toji, scrambling to make his car look presentable for a first date. The thought made you smile to yourself. Dork.

“What’re you smiling about? Like my car?” He asked, his tone a little hopeful. You were no expert on cars, but despite being very beat up on the outside, it looked nice. It was obvious he took good care of it. “Yes, I do,” you admitted. “It’s quite nice.”

“Thanks. I know,” he grinned at you, knowing that would piss you off. You poked his cheek and he pouted before putting the car in drive.

“So where is this mysterious location?” You asked casually. You were staring out the window, trying to make sense of where you were headed. It was the general direction of town, which only narrowed down the options slightly. He could be taking you anywhere from a fancy restaurant to Dick’s Sporting Goods. You hoped it wasn’t the latter, you didn’t pursue jocks for a reason…

“It’s a surprise. And if you nag me about it, I’ll just give you hints that are misleading.” He chuckled to himself, sneaking a glance at you. He was met with you glowering at him. Even after giving you basically nothing to work with in picking an outfit, he had the audacity to keep his lips sealed. You hated to admit it, but it was cute. The effort he was putting in was adorable and pushed your #TojiIsADork agenda even further.

Finding out on your own instead of being fed fabricated information sounded more appealing, so you shut up. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot of an unfamiliar building. It was huge, you stared at the building in awe and Toji smiled, “It’s the new science museum. They have this one biology exhibit, I thought maybe we’d check it out?” He looked at you for approval, and that’s when you realized. He was nervous. The cocky guy you met was nowhere to be found. Instead, a slightly self conscious one stood before you. He kept stuffing his hands in his back pockets and removing them and you swore you saw him wipe his palms on his jeans. Interesting. 

“This was thoughtful,” you said. His mood immediately posted at your praise, lips curving into a smile and even more confidence in his walk. He held open the door for you with a wink. “Ladies first.”

“Cornball,” you rolled your eyes, but slipped past him anyway. The guy at the front desk smiled as you walked up together. 

“Tickets for two?”

Toji nodded and pushed up his glasses. “Does that include the new exhibit?”

“Yes it does.” He typed away on his computer. “That’ll be $19.18”

Toji fumbled for his wallet before handing over a $20 bill. He waved his hand for no change. The tickets printed out of a small machine and the worker handed them to you. “Enjoy!” 

“Thank you,” Toji replied and the two of you entered the exhibit. 

You had no idea such a cool place was in your city, and just right around the corner too. They had everything you could think of: dinosaur skeletons, glass cases with insects, human evolution halls, a whole planetarium, and so much more. You took it all in, glancing back at Toji to see how he reacted. He didn’t look nearly as impressed as you.

“I’ve been here so many times before already," he quickly explained.

“Oh, that makes sense.” You turned back to the exhibit and read the fun facts. After you exhausted every corner of the last exhibit, you headed for the one he was talking about.

It was centered around microbiology. The exhibit walked you through the different structures and explained their functions. Some of the things rang a bell and others didn’t. Either way, it was pretty cool to take what you’ve learned in class and apply it. 

“This is way more in depth than what we’ve gone over in class, or in our lab together, but I wanted to show you since you seemed super intrigued in the lesson.” He explained. “Other than in me, of course.”

You scoffed, but you couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Last time I checked, you were in the same boat.” You bumped him with your shoulder playfully.

“I still am, but I thought it was important to remind you of your roots. Your staring problem might be worse than mine,” he teased, bumping you back.

“I didn’t listen for your cafe order and then bring it up later to make a statement,” you pointed out. “Now who’s worse?”

“Hm,” he grunted. “I mean, I guess.” 

“I’ll take that as accepting defeat,” you said triumphantly. He fought back a smile and took your hand. His large hand engulfed yours, squeezing it lightly before he guided you to that last part of the exhibit. The knots in your stomach only twisted more at his gesture. 

“You mentioned during the first week that microbiology really interested you, so I saved the best for last.” 

You blinked at him, a bit stunned he had remembered that. The two of you hadn’t even spoken then. It was a trivial comment you barely remembered making. Before you could fully process it, a video played on the screen. It was an animation detailing eukaryotic cells, specifically highlighting their functions in humans. The two of you watched in silence and listened intently. After it ended, he turned to face you. 

“Isn’t it cool that under all these layers, we're just that.” He pointed to the nucleus of a small structure on the screen. “Humans are so complex. There’s so many things that are overlooked that are fundamental for us to function. Makes you appreciate the little things, you know?” He cleared his throat, eyes darting to the ground. “But yeah, uh, the video wasn’t too bad.”

He dropped his nonchalant act temporarily to connect with you, but you feel like you just missed your window yet again. His walls went up as quickly as they had gone down. You liked his take, it was very insightful. Plus, he’d remembered such a small detail about you and it meant a lot. 

“The little things are overlooked often, you’re right,” you said quietly. Fear bubbled in your stomach, the weight of the conversation crashing down on you. Last time you checked, this wasn’t first date behavior. It was way too deep, way too soon. But you didn’t feel uncomfortable necessarily, you felt afraid of being judged. Being vulnerable, even if it was about biology cells, wasn’t your strong suit. Especially with someone you liked, you didn't want them to think less of you.

Toji nodded and inched closer. You looked up to look at him, really look at him. His hair was slightly mused, the polo he wore fitted him so perfectly it annoyed you, and his eyes. His green eyes were practically shining and you knew what was coming before it happened. He cupped your cheek before pressing his lips to yours. You kissed him back, fingers tangling in his hair. It was tender; he stroked your cheek with his thumb as he kissed you like you were his oxygen. His soft lips captured yours and it felt like the rest of the world melted away. You pulled away, flustered, heart ready to leap out of your chest.

“We’re in public,” you reminded him, slightly out of breath. The museum was pretty much empty, and no one else was in the exhibit room other than the two of you. You turned your back to him to compose yourself. You had realized he was going to kiss you right before it happened, and yet, nothing could have prepared you for that. The rate your heart was beating at was alarming. You wanted to do that again, except in the privacy of a room where you could do whatever you wa—

“You okay?” He asked, interrupting your thoughts.

You turned around and found him looking at you with a concerned look on his face. His glasses were slipping off his face, but he didn’t seem to notice. He walked up to you, but still left some space between him and you. “Was that too much?” 

You shook your head. That wasn’t enough, but you couldn’t just say that. “No, it wasn’t. I’m sorry I—“ You paused to collect your thoughts. You liked him and it felt good to be here with him. But the pressure in your stomach wasn’t just butterflies. It was fear. You were scared of messing this up and it was eating you alive, preventing you from actually living in the moment.

“I think I’m just scared.” 

Silence. Your confession, short and brutally honest, was finally out in the open. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from your chest. You exhaled and met his eyes. They were sad. Droopy even. Was it from disappointment? Had you ruined the good thing before you even got to enjoy it?

“Me too.” His expression mirrored yours and his admission hung in the air as the two of you processed your mutual fear. It was ironic really—both of you were terrified of ruining a good thing with the other. You could pin yours to previous experiences causing you to have the doubt, but you wondered: what was his reason? The way Toji carried himself alone would make you believe otherwise…but the first thing you learned about him was to never judge a book by its cover.

“You look surprised.” He said it more like a statement than a question. You didn’t even realize you were letting your shock show on your face. You quickly made a neutral expression, but it was too late.

“Go ahead, ask me why that is. I know you want to.” You did want to, but part of you wasn’t sure if you should. Despite the obvious invitation, it felt like an invasion of privacy. Again, you reminded yourself, not first date behavior. But you were already way past trying to fit it into the box of how a first date should go.

“Why are you scared?” Your voice sounded smaller than you had anticipated. Still, you waited for an answer.

“I’m not good at this stuff. I struggled to pick a place for us to go out. I ultimately picked somewhere where I think would interest the both of us and where we could have fun, but I wasn't sure if that was the right choice I mean…” He sighed and his shoulder slacked. “I thought you’re supposed to have a fancy dinner. I wasn’t sure if you’d want that. And I doubt we could even afford it, us being broke college students and all—anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that I’m scared of doing this all wrong. It’s hard to pinpoint the balance between what I should do and what I want to do.” He was rambling at this point. It didn’t seem to bother him though. He seemed to be sorting through his thoughts verbally. “Is the expensive dinner the proper tone to set? Am I being a gentleman? Am I being too nice where it waters down our banter, but too rude where you think I might hate your guts? It’s a lot to wrap my head around.” 

That was a lot to take in at once. You didn’t know he felt this way. He acted so carefree about it all that he really fooled you. “All I know is that I like you, and I want to see where this goes.” He shook his head. “Wow what a first date. Feels like a therapy session.”

Your nerves calmed down and your face broke into a smile. “I like you too. And you don’t need to worry about how you think you should act too much. Just be. I like you for how you are. You’re unapologetically your authentic self. That’s something I admire about you.”

He mirrored your smile. “Oh? Well I guess saying my piece was worth putting everything on the line for,” he joked. You rolled your eyes and laughed. 

“Music to my ears.”

“Ugh,” you groaned. “Gross.”

“What? I can’t appreciate your laugh? And don’t say I’m being corny. Or a geek. I’m not a geek,” he argued.

“...That’s something a geek would say.” 

The two of you left the room and bickered all the way out of the museum, to the car, and the ride home to your house. He kissed you goodbye and drove off once you got inside.

A few hours later, you received a text:

toji: Okay, on a scale of 1-10, how was the first date? I’m open to criticism, but let it be constructive. No “geek” or “dork” nonsense.

you: 10/10 for the geek-ery

toji: I hate you

you: you really don’t

toji: Shut it

You giggled and rolled over on your bed. You were really happy with how the date went. You were beyond nervous, but it all worked out in the end

you: on a real note, i had a good time. thank you for nerding out with me

toji: Same, thanks for agreeing to go out with me even though I said it wrong the first time.

toji: Also, the hell is “nerding out?”

you: the nerd … doesn't know what.. nerding out is …

toji: Wearing glasses doesn’t equate to me being a nerd dumbass

you: quickly, who can recite the entire marvel series in order from memory?

toji: I don’t know but they sound pretty cool to me ngl

you: Dork.

It took a few more dates to get fully comfortable with each other, but when you did, it was amazing. He kept it up with the nerdy date ideas, which you appreciated. You got to dabble in each other’s interests along with tapping into your shared ones. You kept things in your science lab locker from each date: ticket stubs, receipts, and photos... lots and lots of photos. The more you learned about him, the more you fell for him. It was impossible not to love him, you decided. 

In class, you were eventually allowed to sit wherever, but of course neither of you budged. “These seats are lucky,” you declared one day. “We can’t move away.” Instead of teasing you, Toji agreed. There would be no seating changes since he was very happy with where he was at. He had said that last part pointedly and it made you grin.

Dating Toji was everything you’d imagined and more. He was attentive, noticing things you usually missed, and also kept you on your toes. He challenged you to try your hardest and be better. Whenever you needed help with school, he was the first person you went to. You couldn’t be more grateful.

And the sex was the best of your life. You remember your first time with Toji like it was yesterday: 

It was early morning and he had spent the previous night watching movies with you. He spent the night and slept in your bed. You woke up with him hard, pressed up against your ass…and you, soaking through your flimsy sleep shorts.

Of course, knowing Toji, teasing you was his first course of action. He spread your thighs open, teased your entrance with his tip, smirking as you whined for him to just put it in already. 

“Toji—” you whispered his name softly. His dark brows knitted together in mock concern. “Tojiii.” 

“Yes?” He asked innocently. The smirk on his face told him he was anything but innocent, but you were so needy you didn’t want to stall any longer. You closed your legs slightly and glared at him. He gripped your thighs to force them apart and your stomach dipped in excitement. 

“Stop teasing,” you pleaded. “Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely, I will. Give me a sec.” He took off his glasses and reached to put it on the nightstand, but you grabbed his wrist. 

“No, keep them on,” you urged him.

He stared back at you for a moment before putting them back on. The look he gave you made the butterflies in your stomach swarm. You couldn’t resist that look and he knew it. You leaned forward and kissed him. He melted into the kiss, cupping your face gently, and groaning softly before finding his rightful place between your legs. You gasped as he entered you, arching your back. Each inch was more agonizing than the last. He was just too big to take all at once. 

“S-slow down.”

He stilled and pushed your hair out of your face. “I’m sorry I got too excited, you wanna take it slow?”

You nodded eagerly and he rubbed small circles on your clit with his thumb. He tried again, except slower this time. You bit your lip as you attempted to take all of him again. “So tight baby—shit—That’s all of me,” he groaned as he bottomed out. He felt so good like this—thick cock stretching you out and burying you to the hilt. You moaned his name into the pillow underneath you softly.

“Mm don’t hide from me, I wanna hear you.” You lifted your head slightly at his words. He started to move his hips at a steady pace and you let out your broken moans this time. He groaned too, lost in the way your velvet walls hugged him tightly. For the first time having sex with him, he felt heavenly. You clawed at his back, whining as you took him. 

“Holy shit you turn me on so much.” His glasses kept slipping slightly down his nose and he kept pushing them up, but he didn’t take them off. The lewd sounds of skin on skin filled the room as dawn settled in. The sun rising didn’t stop either or you. Everything you needed was right here inside front of you.

“You’re taking me so well,” he groaned, causing you to flutter around him. His glasses were slightly fogged by now, each stroke stripped him of his resolve. All of his focus was on chasing both of your highs. He snapped hips and picked up the pace. Your broken cries egged him on even further and he twitched inside of you at your pretty sounds.  

“Feels s’good,” you choked out, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “I’m close.” Pleasure was building up in your stomach. You were so close you could practically taste it. You wrapped your legs around his waist and he turned his hips slightly. At this new angle, he drove even deeper inside your poor cunt, fucking you with purpose. The head of his cock kissed your cervix every time he bottomed out and you clenched around his length, eyes screwed shut. 

“Yeah baby? You're close? Cum for me. I wanna feel you squeezing around me,” he breathed, “Give it to me. All of you.”

With one more thrust, you came, cunt squeezing his cock, milking him for everything he has, just like he asked. His name escaped your lips as your orgasm crashed over you and you shuddered at the overwhelming pleasure. He slowed down, thrusts becoming sloppier than the last, rigid before he came himself. His thick seed shot deep inside your aching cunt. You whined softly as he collapsed beside you with a low grunt.

The two of you laid there, chests heaving as you caught your breath. 

 “Toji…” 

“'m sorry, I didn’t plan this either.”

You lifted your head to glare at him. “Oh, really? Who was humping me like a hormonal dog in their sleep last night?”  You shot back. 

“Fair point, let me make it up to you?” He folded almost immediately. 

You perked up at this, curious to see what he had in store. “Making it up to you” entailed the best aftercare of your life, though he swore he always prioritized aftercare no matter the situation. Toji cleaned you up with a towel before taking you to the bathroom.  He ran a hot bath with your favorite body wash and made sure the temperature was just right. He climbed in with you and handed you with care. Afterwards, you snuggled in bed together with you as the little spoon.

“Sometimes I wonder if I hadn’t forgotten my lunch that day. I wouldn’t have gone into the cafe,” you murmured.

Toji kissed your neck and sighed. “Yeah we wouldn’t have continued our little game.”

“I’m glad I did. I’m glad to be stuck with you.”

“Me too,” he murmured back, “I’ll always be right by your side.”

Clark’s eyes were glued to the sight of you across the bullpen, and the stress running through his veins was making him look borderline murderous. The poor coffee stirrer snapped in his palms as he clamped down on it. 

“It’s his first day, Clark,” Lois rolled her eyes, brushing past him to steal a sugar packet. “He’s as adorably clueless as the rest. Why don’t you go and say something if it bothers you? Make it clear?”

Clark frowned at her. “I don’t want to look controlling.”

“Well, standing here like you’re planning a homicide isn’t doing much to dissuade the public. Take a chill pill, buddy. You know she’s all yours,” Lois grinned. “Oh, quit making that face. Buck up, cowboy. I’m out.”

Clark grunted unhappily as Lois sauntered away for her lunch break, and his eyes drifted back towards the doors to the copy room. You were in your nicest shirt today, because it was a big day. Perry had given you the privilege of training a new copyboy with reporter aspirations, meaning that you had written enough articles and done enough scut work that you could be trusted to teach someone else. You were very proud of this appointment, because it made you feel like your work was paying off. To have someone looking up to you was an honor. You dressed up in the polka dot blouse you kept for important days and a pencil skirt, one Clark was realizing might be too short for the bullpen, and you had a red marker stuck in your hair and a file balanced on your hip. Gorgeous and professional and entirely too happy. 

This kid couldn’t even be out of high school, he was sure of it. He was two seconds away from calling up Chloe and ordering a background check. What kind of name was Eugene anyway? Eugene Cunningham. It was somewhere between too British and too cartoonish, and it was 100% stupid. Clark hated Eugene. Eugene wore thick-rimmed glasses and an argyle vest, which Clark was positive they didn’t even manufacture anymore, and his shoes were white and black like the ones girls wore with poodle skirts at some distant point of past light. He was an utter geek, and Clark was determined to discover what was so goddamn funny that you were smiling and tilting your head like the pretty bunny you were at Eugene Cunningham, the new copyboy from the 20th century. 

He didn’t move his feet, though. He stood there and watched while you walked the newb around the bullpen, introducing him to people and showing him how the system worked. He stood there long enough that Lois came back from lunch and found him in the same spot, and it took walloping his arm with a rolled up issue of the Planet to wake him up. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

“I think he’s into you.”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Clark!” You chuckled, clacking away at your keyboard. When you heard a huff behind you, you swiveled in your chair and found your boyfriend frowning like a child. It made you feel the teeniest bit sick. “Sorry. Your feelings aren’t silly.”

Clark grumbled incoherently and crossed his arms, before saying more clearly, “You can’t tell me he doesn’t follow you around like a dog.”

“Sure he does, I’m his supervisor! I’m just trying to teach him how to survive, it’s a pretty cutthroat place to be. He’s just a kid. You were just a kid only a couple years ago. Can’t you have a little bit of sympathy for him?”

Clark peered down his nose at you, seeing your sweet eyes and smile and struggling not to agree with your every word just because you sounded so pretty speaking them. He frowned harder out of spite. “I get a bad feeling about him, bunny. He’s after something.”

You couldn’t contain your sigh of aggravated humor. “He’s after a career. Really, Clark, I understand your concern, but I feel like you might just be seeing something you want to see,” you reasoned. “I think he’s just eager to please. He trusts me. And he hasn’t said anything weird or done anything to convince me he’s got any motives, so why worry? He’s a sweet kid. I really think he’s just gelling to me, y’know?”

Clark shuddered at the very implication. Only he could be gelled to you. “I still don’t like it.”

You smirked and whirled your chair back around. “I’m sorry, Clarkie, but it’s as much your choice as it is mine. Perry gave me the job. I’m gonna do it.”

Easy for you to say, he thought between two incredibly knitted eyebrows, you don’t know what it’s like to see a punk trying to steal your girlfriend. 

Clark was still glaring at your computer when you glanced over your shoulder, swatting his hip. He startled. “Huh?”

You giggled softly and jerked your chin in the direction of your monitor. “You’re frying my server, honey.”

Clark looked at your desk to find he’d projected enough radiation in his glare to make your computer start smoking. He flushed red as a cherry and circled around to his desk, sitting quickly to hide his mortification. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

The Eugene dilemma has been causing him ridiculous amounts of undue stress. All he did was worry if the kid would try to make a move on you, or worse, if you’d find something in him worth admiring. You were such a lovey type, always so willing to see the good in people and fall in love with their humor or speech or smiles; it made you gullible and usually heartbroken by the end, and while Clark adored your open heart, he was intent on shielding it from abuse. He simply couldn’t stop worrying. 

Chloe had concocted a helper for him when stuff like this happened. With the hormone inhibitors she cracked through some serious studies on red kryptonite alongside Emile in the Watchtower, he found that in manageable doses, Clark could take it for his anxiety. It would work the same as a Xanax, offering him short term relief, but she had been careful to extract the addictive genes in the crystal so he couldn’t get hooked on the medication. It was entirely safe for fast-acting results, and fast-acting was what he desperately needed. 

You were sitting back in your desk chair, fiddling with a pencil and reading over a draft Eugene had written. You gave him a scoop under Perry’s nose, insisting you could get it published if he got it done in time– you were trying to give him a leg up, because you were just that kind of person. But Eugene was perched on the edge of your desk, watching you proof it, and cracking jokes. Every few minutes, hidden in the corner by the water cooler, Clark could see you tip your head back in laughter as if the copyboy was the second coming of George Carlin. Sometimes you’d grin with all your teeth, sometimes you’d sit up to show him what you marked in red, and the rest of the time you sat patiently and gave his work all your attention, preciously oblivious to the fact that the kid was absolutely staring down your cleavage. Clark just couldn’t take the stress anymore. He fished the little tin of pills out of his pocket and popped one, washing it down with the plastic-tinged water from the cooler, and he took a deep breath. 

Fast-acting was no joke. An instant calm settled over him like a blanket, releasing the tension in his back and neck, and his lungs felt full for the first time in two weeks. He felt so good that he walked right over and stood beside your chair. 

“Hi, bunny,” he grinned, eyes glinting. “Hey, Cunningham.”

The copyboy straightened a bit, glancing up the two feet Clark towered over him with. “Hello, Mr. Kent.”

Clark cocked his head and said, “It’s rude to sit on people’s desks, has anyone ever told you that?”

You fumbled the story in your lap and set it askew on the desk, laughing awkwardly and sitting up straight. “Clark!” you reached to pat his leg, throwing him a side-eye. “Did you need something, honey?”

Clark stared at Eugene until the kid got the hint and stood up, scratching his burning neck. Then, he leaned down, capturing your chin between his thumb and finger, and he laid one big kiss right on your mouth where everyone in the bullpen could see. You let out a hum of surprise, but succumbed to the softness of his lips for the few seconds it lasted. When he pulled away, you blinked as if you were Tom, and Jerry just wacked you over the head with a loving frying pan. 

“Just that,” he murmured, drawing back and walking away, hanging a left out of the doors toward the elevators. Where he was going, you had no idea, but you certainly watched him leave. 

Eugene coughed a bit, snapping you out of it. He asked, “I forgot you mentioned that you two were, um… together.”

You felt heat creep under your skin and nodded, gathering his story up again. “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

“That kid’s got it bad,” Lois nudged your elbow, passing you a piece of gum. “I’d be careful.”

You pouted, unwrapping the foil and placing the minty stuff on your tongue. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Does it look like I’m giving him signals? I’m very professional! And I talk about Clark all the time!”

Lois propped her chin in her hand and shrugged, watching closely at the spectacle across the room. Clark was struggling, with gritted teeth and many squeezes of the nose bridge, to show Eugene how to reboot the old desktops. The poor guy had never looked so miserable with any task in his life. “That’s not the point. It’s not you, it’s them. Men. They want what they want.”

“That’s stupid,” you grumbled, stirring your tea with its own bag. Your lunch sat half-eaten next to Lois’. You lost your appetite when the whole thing came up again. “He’s just a kid.”

“A nerdy kid who probably has no idea what to do around women,” she lilted, smacking her gum like it amused her to watch you cringe. “Seriously, if he brings you any coffee, don’t drink it. He looks like the kind to buy a love potion off the street.”

You whined softly and buried your face in your arms, resting on her desk. “This is all so juvenile. Even Clark won’t let it go.”

“Shocker. Guy who loves emotional self-flaggelation doesn’t want to let go of his pretty girlfriend getting flirted into oblivion.”

“It is not oblivion! He’s not flirting!”

Lois ruffled the crown of your head. “Sure he isn’t, cutie.”

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

In hindsight, it was a very bad idea and you’d probably be very angry with him later, but it wasn’t enough to stop him. He’d pocketed the lipstick as a backup. A hail mary, if you will. He wasn’t even planning on using it. It just seemed like a smart move when you swiped on that red shade this morning. But when the opportunity presented itself…

It was all Eugene’s fault, anyway. The kid was stupid enough to try. What was Clark supposed to do?

If only you weren’t so quick to laugh. You just burst into these fits of sweet, sing-song laughter at the stupidest jokes, jokes that wouldn’t be funny to anyone but you in a million lifetimes, and it was as endearing as it was agonizing lately. Eugene liked to make you laugh, especially because it made you stumble. You would clutch to a chair or wall when you giggled yourself unsteady. That was his chance. Clark knew because he used the same tricks.

Today, Clark had taken two pills, which made him a bit overly free, but not so free he felt like stealing a motor vehicle. He was so anxious he wasn’t sleeping, so he had to double down. He only insulted Perry by accident, accidentally dented the elevator door, and told the hot dog cart guy down on the street that relish was a hoax by Big Condiments to make pickles unappetizing– y’know, normal red kryptonite behavior. As it stood now, he was tapping his foot in his chair and trying to remember that getting up to throttle Eugene’s skinny little neck in front of distinguished colleagues would be a very bad idea and was the work of the drugs. But there you were, laughing, and he couldn’t fight the effects off. 

Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t hysterical enough for you to stumble into the copier, but you were sunshine on weak legs anyway. Clark watched in slow motion as Eugene’s hands shot to your waist to steady you, fingertips sinking into the pillowy skin shielded by only your sweater, and that broke the last straw on his hulking camel-back. 

You wiped at your eye between cackles as Clark suddenly appeared beside you, tugging you free from the copyboy’s hands and righting you. You drew in a hiccuping breath and beamed at Clark. “Oh, Clarkie! You missed it, Eugene just said the silliest thing about relish–”

“You have to be more careful, bunny, you almost fell,” he chided softly, kissing your cheek and watching the way the kid shifted uncomfortably at the show of affection. It made his chest buzz with pride. He added curtly, “She can help herself. No need to touch, kid.”

“Oh, stop it. I can be a klutz sometimes, you know that,” you faltered, collecting yourself. 

Clark used your distracted glance towards the trainee to tuck his hand into his pants pocket and pull out the silver tube. The one you applied before work was silver, too, and you didn’t use this one all that often– only on nights when Clark felt like being a little bad– so he hoped you wouldn’t notice. “Here, sweetheart, you smeared your lipstick.”

You turned back, seeing his thoughtful gesture and softening right up. “Oh! Gosh, thank you,” you blushed, wiping the corners of your lips with two fingers. “Can’t look a mess, can I?”

Clark hummed happily and watched with rapt attention as you uncapped the lipstick and smeared it right on. Eugene shifted on his feet once more before slipping away from the copier, uncomfortable even mere feet from Clark. The reporter saw him leave, debating whether making his pants smoke would be worth the suspension. When he glanced back, you were staring up at him with pupils big as dimes. 

“Clarkie,” you purred, tossing the lipstick onto the nearest desk– he quickly snatched it up, damage control– and threw your arms around his neck. Clark didn’t resist your hungry kiss, and was wholeheartedly relieved when you dragged him out of the bullpen doors down the hall to the phone booth. 

Despite the fumbling to squeeze inside, you wrangled the door shut and attacked him with kisses. The red kryptonite lacing that makeup was not the same stuff in the pills, and the chemical surge that overrode his veins lit his nerve endings up like Christmas. It was another invention of Chloe’s (like taking a gummy, it would wear off shortly, but had a much more intensive high) and was strictly reserved for the house, but Clark had broken the rule now. It was a dumb rule anyway. He shoved you up against the wooden wall and groaned needily, sliding his palms under your sweater to reach the searing skin.

You squeaked and arched into his touch, gasping for air as his teeth scraped down your plush collarbone. Your brain struggled through the fuzz to ask, “Y-you used… the special lipstick… didn’t you?”

Clark grunted like an animal, taken with the fact you were coherent enough to figure it out. In fact, he felt you needed to match his level. The reporter dragged his wet lips across the valley of your neck, rooting for the tube again and unearthing it from his pocket. When he pulled away, he tugged on your arm and smiled down at you, flashing his sharp teeth. He shoved your sleeve up with haste.

Your glazing eyes blinked slowly while you tried to steady yourself. “What were you thinking?”

Clark twisted the makeup up and pressed the flat, crimson edge to your forearm; in hurried and careless letters, he spelled C-L-A-R-K. “You’re mine, bunny, and that kid should know it,” he cooed, “that’s what I was thinking.”

The toxins seeped right through your skin, suddenly everything burned a million degrees, and you were aching with a desire that had you nearly collapsing to the phone booth floor. Clark laughed as you flung yourself at him, lips and teeth gnashing, and he wasted no time working his hand down your pants. 

From the outside, nobody could be sure what was happening inside the phone booth. It was soundproofed for journalist-source confidentiality, seeing as so many anonymous tips were called in directly to the Planet. The glass was frosted, too, on every pane, because the booth was decades old and still carried the styles of the original building. Now and again there would sound a growl or a yelp from inside, and it seemed to shake every so often, but nobody dared get close enough to investigate. They knew better than to pry when they saw Kent and his well-written girlfriend go anywhere together. 

˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Almost an hour later, you sat back down at your desk to find it covered in neon sticky notes full of phone messages, and a cup of coffee which had a note scribbled on it in a familiar script: YOU’RE LUCKY I COVERED, FREAK! Lois had even been generous enough to leave a half-eaten donut behind, too. Good thing. You would need the sustenance. 

The lipstick still stained your arm, but with your sweater sleeve down, no one would know. You cleaned up alright, save for the wild back of your head. Clark, on the other hand, was always a flushed mess after a quickie (if an hour was quick), and his hair and tie and shirt all showed the rumpled signs. He came to sit at his desk across from yours a few minutes later, totally discreet and unsuspicious, rubbing at a red stain near his ear. He grinned at you like an idiot as he sat down, until he hissed, and you had to hide a laugh. Sensitive, you teased silently. You handed him your coffee without a word. 

Nanami Kento was a jealous man, and it shows in these moments, the way his hips snap to yours, the way he grips your waist, the way his hand slides from your shoulder to your neck. Applying just enough pressure to make you gasp. This was a side of Nanami only you got to see, the barely contained beast beneath his composed exterior.

"Kennto~ my tummy.." you whimper as he hits impossibly deep, it feels like he’s churning up your insides, trying to fuck into your womb, making your brain scramble.

His hot breath ghosts over your ear, crisp dress shirt rustling against your bare skin, "Isn't this what you wanted?" One strong hand grips your ass, lifting for a better angle, "Showing up here begging for attention..., Was this morning not enough, dear?"

No. It's never enough. You're addicted to everything about him- his controlled power, his clenched jaw when you test him, those perfect strands of hair falling in his eyes when you act like a brat.

"Ah~Al-ways... always m’need you..." you manage between moans, “my Kento~”

He presses tender kisses along your shoulder, a deep contrast to the way he was currently fucking you. He knows you're his alone, his perfectly devoted dear, but still… Gojo always tries. The white hair sorcerer saying things like, "Commme on~ isn’t Nanami sooo old-fashioned? You can have so much more fun with me~!! Come out and play with me sometime." with that dumb expression on his face, the way his eyes would flit from you to Nanami, purposely getting under his skin.

The thought of breeding you right now- fucking a child into your willing womb floods his mind as he fists your hair. How you'd look waddling around heavy with his child, breasts swollen and leaking… Shit… that might cause more unwanted attention.

But still, Nanami himself enjoyed the vision. The thought of you as a mother filled him with a domestic warmth he didn’t know he had, and he was grateful you couldn’t glimpse the rosy blush that spread across his face as he dreamed of sampling your motherly milk. He imagined it would taste like warm honey and fresh cream, rich with nurturing sweetness.

You moan his name so beautifully, and it drives his hand to wonder towards your lower belly, pressing firmly, imaging his seed taking root, a son or daughter kicking happily under his hand.

Nanami's breath was ragged, nearing his end, and the thing that did him in was the sound of your needy little plea, "c-cum in me ~ wanna walk home with y-your cum in me, please!"

With a low growl, he yanks your head back and slams deep, cock pulsing as he empties his hot load inside you, hoping and secretly praying for your womb to drink it up. You can feel each spurt of his sticky cum painting your gummy walls, and it sets you off, your orgasm washing over you as you squeeze around his length.

Your entire body goes limp against the wall, supported only by his strong arms as he catches his breath. His forehead resting against the back of your head, hot panting breaths causing your hair to move as he stays buried in your fluttering heat.

"Sorry…," his voice was soft, his grip loosening.

"For what?" You sigh.

"That was... I got carried away."

"Mmmm... I like it when you get carried away~" You smile.

With a gentle kiss to the top of your head, your gentle Nanami returns, whispering praises he’s only said to you. You're so beautiful, so perfect, and his.

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