𝐀𝐮𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐲

clark was sitting at your shared desk in the bedroom, and you were thankfully out of sight from the laptop camera lens. clark had a nice hot mug full of tea waiting for you on the nightstand, such a gentleman.

as clark joined the zoom call, you slid out of bed, passing clark and pecking his cheek before heading to the bathroom. you had a plan brewing, and poor clark had no idea what was coming.

you did your business, going on as if everything was normal. as you walked back into the bedroom, the meeting was in full swing, with perry going on and on about the layout for the next edition. clark had just been promoted to be a co-editor, a big deal for him. but you had other plans, moving to crawl under the desk. 

clark’s eyes immediately widened and he turned off his camera and mic, before his hands flew to your shoulders. “what are you doing? right now? babe, i’m working, come on, don’t do this to me,” he whined, but he made no effort to stop you as you tugged him closer by the thighs.

“oh, don’t be a baby. this is payback for you coughing as loud as a middle aged dad brushing his teeth while i was sleeping,” you huffed, tugging his sweats down to his ankles. “can i?”

clark bit his lip, hesitating before ultimately nodding. he liked a challenge. “you better keep quiet for me, big guy, wouldn’t want you to lose your big promotion,” you whisper, pulling his soft cock out.

clark swallowed thickly before turning back to his laptop and turning his camera back on. you grasped the base of his cock, spitting onto the head of it before beginning to stroke him, nice and slow. it was only a matter of seconds before he was fully hard, you had that effect on him.

he’d been able to keep his composure thus far, the only notable difference in his behavior being heavier breathing, but nothing that translated on camera. you spat on his cock again, really getting him nice and lubed up as your palm dragged over his dick. wet shlicks filled the room, making clark swallow thickly and his cock jerk in your grip.

he was still focused on the meeting, as much as he could be, anyways. his knee bounced and his stomach clenched, but he was doing good. the real challenge, however, came when it was his time to speak up. perry had asked him what he thought of a certain stylistic choice for the next newspaper, and clark couldn’t give the classic “my mic doesn’t work” excuse since he’d used it to say good morning at the beginning of the meeting.

but he didn’t dare ask you to stop, so he swallowed thickly and unmuted himself. “u-uh, looks good on my end, per. no notes,” clark managed to speak out, quickly muting himself once more to let out a pathetic moan. he leaned forward on the desk, propping himself up on his elbow and covering his mouth with his palm, a slight furrow to his brow.

his free hand went to hold your hand under the desk, his fingers curling around yours. such a stickler for intimacy. “you’re doing so good, baby. might have to reward you later,” you hum, leaning in and licking a long stripe up the base of his cock. your hand quickened on his cock, stroking him faster and harder with a sharp twist of your wrist that made clark’s thighs shake.

you kissed up and down his cock, eyes locked on his face as he tried his hardest to focus on the meeting. luckily for him, none of his coworkers seemed to notice—he had a good poker face.

the meeting wasn’t a long one, only a few minutes left before everyone could sign off and go about their days, but you wanted to really push clark in that limited amount of time.

you started off small with the licks to his cock, which eventually trailed down to his balls, giving them a suckle and pop. eventually, your lips found his taint, tongue pressing insistently against it, all while you continued to jerk him off. clark turned away from the camera, pretending to sneeze while he truly let out the most whorish moan you’d ever heard.

anal had been a sensitive topic you’d been dancing around. clark wasn't necessarily opposed to the idea, in fact it excited him, but he just needed some time to warm up to it. 

right now, however, he had no time to warm up to it. you had other plans for him, plans that seemed to have a shared end goal of embarrassing him in front of his coworkers. your tongue never ceased its incessant pressing and circling, just as your palm never stops dragging up and down his thick and heavy cock.

above, you heard perry begin to sign off, giving his last few reminders for the team. just then, steve unmuted himself to start going on some sort of tangent of complaints and corny dad jokes and whatnot, which gave you the perfect opportunity to press clark’s buttons—literally.

just as perry was finally steering the meeting topic back to goodbyes and sign offs, you nudged clark’s thighs just a little wider, before reaching down and popping your middle finger right up his ass, which somehow didn’t struggle much in taking it. you’d definitely have to question him about that later.

the moment your finger popped into his ass, clark slammed his laptop shut without a care for the meeting and keeled over. his body jerked and twitched, his hands going to tightly grip the edges of his chair so he wouldn’t hurt you. his eyes screwed shut and his head flew back.

his lips fell open and he let out the most beautiful harmonious moan you’d ever heard come out from his mouth. all it took was a little wiggle of your finger, and he was shooting his load all over your palm and his shirt. it felt like he was cumming for ages, just spilling what looked like a gallon of cum everywhere. 

as he finished and started catching his breath, he slumped back against the chair, not yet opening his eyes.

“you’re suspiciously good at taking fingers in your ass, are you hiding a secret past from me? an experimental phase in college i don’t know about?” you chuckle as you slide your finger out, playfully patting his knee as you slide out from underneath the desk and lean down to peck his lips.

“i’m a big guy, i can handle a lot,” clark weakly rebutted, swallowing thickly and chasing your lips as you pulled away.

“you call immediately creaming yourself ‘handling it?’”

“totally, took it like a champ.”

just as you left the room to retrieve a towel and some water for clark, his phone buzzed on the desk. he glanced down at it, finding a new message from jimmy.

“dude”

“your cam is frozen on your dick leave the meeting”

“nice schlong tho”

fuck.

a/n: feeling xtra motivated lately, this wasnt proofread tho idgaf. as always, pls send me reqs, like n reblog, thanks for reading !!! also dk what layout i like best , in between this or ones like this whatever pls tell me what yall prefer !! please don't redistribute my works anywhere - wtredprch - want more?

You're not a pervert, you don't even consider yourself to fall into that dirty category.

But something about Adrian's chest simply changes your perspective the moment he flexes his arms and his chest becomes more prominent beneath one of his shirts—sometimes those shirts are a little too tight, almost indecent.

And it's not your fault your eyes fall there, really, the way you look at his chest isn't the same way a dirty old married man would look at a random girl's cleavage, it's not the same, because you have moderation... Sometimes.

It's mesmerizing, the knowledge that beneath that disgustingly thin fabric are those hard yet soft pecs, those nipples of that enticing color, the creamy skin, and beneath that flesh, there's vivid red, a heart beating strongly for you, making your mouth water, calling you to rip off his shirt and then—

“You're doing it again,” an accusation pulls you from your sinful thoughts, and you blink a couple of times, raising an eyebrow and looking at Adrian in front of you.

“What?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes. “You're looking at my chest!” he says, pointing where your eyes are fixed, and you shake your head.

“No, I'm not,” you'll keep denying it until he shuts up.

“Don't lie to me when you're right in front of me, dude, it's bad taste, even worse if Monopoly is involved, this is disrespectful!” he complains like a petulant spoiled child and then you sigh, looking at the board. Yes, you're losing.

“Whatever,” you say, crossing your arms and glaring at him.

Then his mood changes extremely fast “It’s your turn,” he says with a grin, as if he hadn’t just scolded you.

Unfortunately, your eyes inevitably drift back to his chest.

“Dude!”

You're starting to think it's a fetish—there's no other casual way to describe it—but what immediately lowers the chances of that being the case is that it's never happened with anyone else before.

Of course, there are women, there are other men... Big tits, small tits, little areoles, bigger ones, there are muscular men with perfect pecs that could be tits—it's attractive, you can't deny it's quite beautiful to look at.

But Adrian awakened a hunger in you. It wasn't just seeing big, sweaty pecs that beckoned to your hands; you wanted to devour them, suck them, lick them, bite them, squeeze them, massage them—the whole package. You thought about them day and night, with or without clothes; it was an obsession bordering on the unhealthy.

It was something that called to you, urging you to squeeze your own chest when he wasn't around.

But oh, when he was... He had to learn to accept it.

You'd watch a movie together, your hand under his shirt squeezing the hard muscle covered in a healthy layer of fat to experience such movie in a better way, and he'd just let you.

When you took awkward showers together—awkward because taking showers with another person is a torture but attachment issues were worse— he'd get in first, lathering his body, and then you'd come up behind him, pressing your chest against his back. He'd jump at the sudden contact, letting your hands travel up his ribs to what you adore, massaging them as if you needed it to live, feeling his nipples harden in your palms.

Adrian would then to enjoy the time together get into a quiz about the most recent animal he'd seen before getting in the shower, you answering while holding heaven in your hands.

Then he would become so sensitive that he would start moaning your name and gasping as the water fell on his hard cock, which was beginning to throb, all thanks to your vicious touches.

During sex, the dynamic is the same, except you rest your hands there while you ride him until he sobs your name and thrusts back into your heat, and you're playing with his perky nipples, adding even more overstimulation to his poor body.

And when it was the other way around, when you took him in the spooning position and he drooled until it was a mess, one of your hands would always find itself on one of his pecs, and you'd tease him about it, whispering pure perversion in his ear about how big they are, about how he's going to come without any contact on his useless cock just because you were playing with his tits and your hips were abusing his prostate.

He came faster, with pride.

When you rested your head on his chest, the games began. You massaged it first with your hands, then closed your lips around the little knot of nerves and sucked, licking until he hissed from the sensation of your wet lips on his sensitive nipple. You sucked until it was soaked, and he started making the most adorable sounds, covering his mouth with one hand as you practically fed on him, your playful fingers pinching the other nipple that wasn't in your mouth.

Then you released it with a soft pop and moved to the other to treat it the same way.

You didn't stop until he was sore and leaking under the sheets, trembling from how well your mouth quenched his thirst on his tit.

Your little obsession had made him hypersensitive to every touch there, every brush of the area when he put on a shirt made his nipples harden. Of course, you noticed when it wasn't cold, and even then you could see the little perks straining against his shirt.

He was even capable of coming just from your hands on his chest.

Like that time he was cleaning the kitchen counter and you came up behind him, slipping your hands under his white tank top, directly stimulating his nipples until he was so hard against the painful zipper of his light blue jeans, his hands pressing against the surface and whimpering your name.

It was too much for him.

A lewd twist on the flesh was enough to push him to an intense orgasm inside his clothes, until he became uncomfortably sticky while pleasure invaded every part of his feverish body. He tried to push his hips to where he was leaning, simply out of inertia, in search of a contact that never came since you made sure that he reached his climax while you tortured him and his cock remained with absolutely no touch.

Throbbing against nothing, just pitiful.

After that, he grinned like a fool, asking you if he did good, so excited lile a puppy for your compliments, seeking your approval even as his release clouded his senses, all red cheeks and giggling.

And don't forget the marks—that part of his body bears the marks you so enjoy seeing afterward.

🖋️ ` I miss him so bad bruh I gotta work on the requests, I'm irresponsible. Merry Christmas y'all.

` Tags list

Your laughter fills the stale air, though to him, it was as sweet as he remembered. "I can't believe this. You think you can just drag me around just cuz you wear a badge?"

David tilts his head, scanning over your figure and back at you, "…no".

Well, that was unconvincing.

"I only pulled you out because I know what was about to happen. And also because I know who you're with." He continues with a shrug.

You blink. "What does that mean?"

"His name." David presses, "your 'boyfriend', you want me to recite his entire rap sheet out here?"

For one, you didn't appreciate his throwing air quotes around that. You don't say anything just yet — and for those precious few seconds, the crowd noise from behind the door fills the silence. The muffled thump of bass, laughter in obliviousness of what was gonna happen in there.

"You ran a check on him?"

"Of course I did." He says simply, like it was the most normal thing ever, "I run checks on everyone you've been with." David rolls his shoulder, easing off the weight of his admission," which then brings me to, how do you always manage to pick the biggest ass-holes the city has to offer?"

"Oh, I was just trying my best-est to outdo myself with my ex being the biggest asshole of them all." Your tone was biting, though your exasperation undercuts the sting of it. "What do you even want from me?"

His shoulders go slack, stuffing a hand into his hoodie pockets, the other, gesturing as he spoke. "Listen. You wanna be with a guy like that, fine." David shrugs with a huff, then looks at you with incredulity building in his expression.

"Actually. No. You're better than that. You're not dating that junkie moron."

The irony of it wasn't lost on you. Being with a narc then to…well…

"We're way past you telling me what to do."

"Stay out of my business," you jab a finger at his chest, wincing at the steely wall you feel instead at your poke.

Then, you clumsily feel around at the strap of your heels. "Stay out of my relationships."

He watches you with intrigue as you pull them off with a hop, holding them by the bedazzled thin lather backings, flinging them to the side. It was a ritual he'd memorised, the way you'd abandon all the easily-re-purchasable material things whenever you were done pretending you were in control.

David leans down to pick them up by the straps, not even flinching when you shoved past him with a low murmur.

"Stay out of my fucking life." Your bare feet patter on the pavement, resolute and decided to leave him — like he left you all those months ago.

He eyes you in his peripheral with a sigh, twirling around to grab you by your arm. "C'mon baby. Stop." David pulls you to face him, the rasp in his voice turning far more tender, "do you have a ride home?"

"Don't call me baby." You emphasise with a jerk of your arm, surging ahead, but not before throwing an annoyed comment over your shoulder, "I'll get a cab."

"You're not getting a cab from here," David calls out, looking past you and back at your retreating figure. Languidly trailing behind. "It's dark, it's about to get messy, and you'll get spooked. Let me take you home."

"Why don't you just…disappear? You seem to know how to do that really well."

David doesn't react to your jabs — not visibly, anyway. He'd learned the hard way that letting you get steam out was a smarter way to handle you.

"Yeah. I'm not letting you do that. You're mad at me, I get that, but I'm taking you home." His tone brooks no further debate.

"C'mon. My van's parked behind."

David walks in the opposite direction, before looking back and groaning — to see you still stubbornly standing in place. He stretches his palm out, waiting for you to come to him.

You stare at him, with your lips pressed into a thin line. Damn him. David had always known how to work around your quirks, and you hated just how easily he knew how to lure you back into his orbit. This time, you don't. You turn heel, quickening your pace to the streets.

"You're making this difficult." His voice picks up an octave, echoing all around you, a warning that you didn't quite have an escape.

You hear him behind you, the thud of his boots matching the pace of your panicked steps. He's already beside you before you can think to bolt, hoisting you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. Which, unsurprisingly, wasn't the first time he had to do this.

Your hands flail instantly, blindly grabbing around his back for some stability.

The shrill noise cuts through the low-bustling lot, and a sharp smack lands on your ass to get you to stop wriggling. You bite down on a strangled yelp at the shock-waves it sends up your spine. His hand steadies you by the bend of your knees, the other carrying your heels loosely.

"DAVID!" In some sort of attempt to get him loose, you kick at him.

His palm connects with the globe of flesh once more, hiking you higher on his shoulder this time. "Stop." He says firmly, not wanting to get more attention than you'd already gathered from bystanders at your tantrum.

David adjusts you with ease in a fluid movement, stuffing you into the passenger seat of his sprinter, grunting as he ducks in to fasten your seatbelt.

The heat of embarrassment, and something far too familiar, creeps in. Your heart thumps erratically in the wake of him effortlessly bending you to his will, the warmth around you like a phantom touch.

Almost as a wash of reality, the click of the driver's side opening has you snapping back up, releasing the belt. You yank at your door, using the momentum to escape.

"Oh for — " You hear a grunt behind you, and David catches your thigh, reaches over to slam the door shut. When you attempt to push, he pulls his cuff from his belt, the metal clattering to your wrists at a sharp intensity.

You gasp loudly, "ACK —," snapping your head to him. "A-Are you kidding me?"

The colder steel wraps your wrist like a vice, "If you can't stay put, you don't leave me much of a choice now, do you?" He lifts your wrist, securing the other end of the cuff to the handle beside you.

"David!" You screech, thrashing against the metal in futility.

He raises a brow and looks over at you, putting his own seatbelt on. A faint hint of a smirk on his lips at your antics.

"Keep screaming like that and I'll actually arrest you."

You look up at him this time, frowning. And you catch him staring with his jaw clenched, particularly at the way your dress had ridden all the way up. It's quick and guilty, and David has enough sense to turn away.

"Y-You —" A sputter leaves your lips, and you swing at him even before you could think through your decision, knuckle hitting the side of his jaw. The shock of it rattles back up your own arm. Pain blooming in your knuckles. "FFFfffffffuuuuuuckkk…" You groan, shaking your hand.

David grunts, coaxing his jaw with his palm. He supposed he deserved that. With a clear of his throat, he sizes you up with a stern look. "Sit still." Though his hand comes up to rest over yours, mindlessly thumbing around the red, blooming at your knuckles.

He lets his touch linger before pulling away to calibrate his GPS to your estate, "I'm sure your parents wouldn't want to see you like this. I have an extra pair of sweats and you can —"

"I don't live with them." You say all too quickly.

David's gaze falls on you, a hint of a furrow on his brow. You're already yanking open his glove box, finding the gloss and makeup you'd left there from months ago — untouched, like he couldn't bear to take them out of their rightful place. You yank the visor down to reapply your gloss, "they kicked me out."

His expression hardens more. It made sense why you were with that guy from earlier. You were out of options, weren't you?

"What do you mean they kicked you out?" He follows up. He'd always known your parents were strict, but this was a bit much.

"I'm sorry. Should I have dumbed it down even more? Dad no happy. I get kick out. On street."

David huffs out an annoyed laugh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "That bad?"

You shrug. Smacking the gloss on your lips before placing it back into the compartment. "They cut my trust fund after I went on a…'bender'" you mutter with air quotes, "After you'd —" You stop abruptly. Letting the rest of it burn in your throat.

It was left unsaid, but hangs between the two of you regardless — after you'd left me, disappearing for some super secret narc mission without a word, and I spent months spiralling over the why of it. And even when you fucking came back, you couldn't be bothered to come back to me and explain why you left to begin with.

His jaw flexes. He knew what was on your mind, "…you're lucky I was even there earlier." David doesn't look at you when he says it.

You scoff, mirthless, "fuck you, David."

His expression sours damn near instantly. He's had enough of this version of you — angry, reckless, throwing everything at him like it was his fault, even if it had been.

The engine growls to life, and he reverses out of the lot, headed towards his place.

"Fuck me, huh?" He muses, "your own actions and consequences. But sure. I'm to blame for everything."

"Must be nice." You shot back. "Evading responsibility just cuz you get to slap some type of 'greater good' bullshit with your job." Your voice cracks, but you don't stop, "leave people, come back, haunting the living shit out of me. It's oh-so-convenient, isn't it? You're the hero, and I'm the fuck up."

"— Ugh!" You feel your body jerk to the side as he swerves into the next lane, and you grit. The route is something you'd known all too well.

David was eerily quiet the entire time. And knowing him? He'd only been stewing. You're perking up when he kills the engines, rounding the car to pull the passenger door open.

You raise a brow quizzically at him when he yanks you out, stumbling onto the concrete before hauling you upright over his shoulder again. "I can walk!" You grit. Slamming his back with your fists.

"Uh-huh." He hums, you weren't all that unpredictable to him. Chances were, you'd bolt the second he turned away.

The front door slams in your face with a thud. And the next thing you know, you're being carried up the stairs, into his master bathroom.

You don't get to question when he practically dumps you beneath the shower head.

"…?"

The water comes out far too cold, far too quickly. Blasting icy into your skin, instantly sobering you up. You shriek, covering around your shoulders in an effort for some warmth.

"You done now?"

For some reason, the lack of kindness — or anything — in his words stung far more than you'd imagined. His gaze takes in your skin and the dress now plastered onto your body like a second skin.

He sighs softly, pushing your hair over your shoulders. "You're a mess…" It wasn't quite an insult, but something in him was breaking for being partly responsible for what you'd driven yourself to become.

You shove back against his chest, with your breathing turning ragged, tears burning hot down your cheeks despite the cold assault of water raining on you both.

"Go. To. Hell."

David's palms come to stop you mid-shove, cupping your face to pull you closer to him. "Mhm." His chin drops to rest on the top of your head, arms wrapped around you to rock you, gently.

Your fists continue to pound at his chest, growing weaker and weaker until they curl around the fabric. The bathroom echoes loudly when your sobs finally rip through the sound of water hitting tiles. Salty tears stained his chest.

"You — you promised." You're barely able to sputter out a complete sentence, ugly crying through hiccups and tears, "you said you'd take me with you if you ever h…had to leave." You choked through your words, sniffling hard. "You left me!"

David's eyes fluttered shut, breathing roughly through his nose. His hand slips to rest at the back of your neck, thumb kneading at the tenseness there.

"I know," he rasps, "I know, baby, I fucked up."

"T-Too freakin' late," you hiss out, swallowing a sob, "you left — for months, without a word. I hate you. I hate you, I hate you."

"I get it," he murmurs. Pressing his lips against your hairline, his scruff provides you with a warm shudder of familiarity. "Hate me all you want. I can take it."

You sob even harder at that — mostly in annoyance and frustration, with your nails digging into his biceps at painful intensity.

David pulls your hands away from his arms, kissing your knuckles. "You're gonna hurt yourself."

Your lips twitch in your growing anger — ever so thoughtful. Perfect-freaking-David.

You aren't sure who leans in first, but the kiss that finally has you both crashing your lips together knocks the absolute wind out of you.

"Mmhn—!" Your fists knot in his hoodie, in a mix of both saltiness and the pleasant aroma of coffee still on his tongue.

David pulls away with a pant, his forehead pressed onto yours as he shuts the water off. "I missed you," he whispers, warm onto your skin, meeting your lips with urgent pecks while he walks you backwards out of the bathroom.

You're both dripping onto the hardwood floorings, crossing the threshold into the bachelor-pad of a space he placed a Queen bed in. You'd always complained about it, but you'd noticed this time how he'd tried — with putting whatever throws and furnishings he'd once teased you for wanting him to get.

David lets you slump into the bed, kneeling his way over your hips, his lips connecting with every square inch of bare skin they could meet. He thumbs at your cheek, rubbing away at the dried tears.

"Still hate me?"

Your lips pressed taut, and you're nodding through a frown — your cheeks are flushed from exertion, your damp hair stuck to the back of your neck, and your dress in complete disarray.

David offers you a lop-sided smile, flashing the deep dimples of his through the coarse brown. He pulls back for a second, tugging his shirt and pants off with ease and climbs back over you. "Suppose I deserve that."

You shift to lean in closer to him, meeting his pecks until he eventually has you lying on his bed. David dips his head lower to mouth at your neck and cheek. You're squirming at the ticklish sensation, which only spurs him on to kiss you more.

"Move your stuff here," he murmurs, sliding his hand down to pull the zipper off your dress, easing you out of the silky material.

You're looking up at him hazily, a little uncertain. "What..?" David drags his jaw down your collarbone, kissing the soft mounds there before lifting his head a tad.

"Move in with me."

He repeats, with his digits ghosting over your cunt. Your hips inch a little higher, thighs tensing at the idea — the dream you've had for months on end.

You exhale, stuttering, mouth curling into an 'o' as his calloused fingers push away at the gusset of your panties, rubbing between your folds.

"H-How would I know you wouldn't up and leave me again?"

David's head slumps to rest on your shoulders, though it's tilted in a way that he can see how his palms were teasing your pretty, wet pussy.

"I won't." He promises. Dipping his finger into your warm walls. "Ever." David looks to you, expression equally as pained.

You tilt your head back onto the mattress. Your own hand snaking around his wrist to nudge his fingers deeper into you. Which he obliges without question. Your hips rock onto his fingers, a whine escaping you when he adds another thick finger into your sopping cunt.

"David —" you gasp, thighs threatening to shake. You tug at his hips with your thigh, urging him to fuck you the way you needed. "Not with your fingers."

He looks up to kiss your jaw, rubbing the tip of his hard cock down from your puckered hole to your clit. You clench around his tip, and the bastard smirks.

"Q-Quit fucking around," you croak, hips chasing wherever his fat tip poked at. David smiles against your cheeks, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

"No? Tough crowd." He grins as he glances down, adjusting himself just right until he feels you open up for his cock.

"Fffuckkk me…" he grunts shakily, pressing a tight fist onto the bed, lowering himself until he's inching deeper and deeper into you.

Your thighs jolt at every nudge of his thick cock, penetrating you with a delicious stretch. "Oh my —god—ohmygod—…oh — umm—mmhn!"

David's eyes fluttered shut, the sounds of your sweet, raw moans shooting a sharp pleasure at his scrotum. "Fuck. Baby, you gotta stop — c-clenching me."

Your hands snap to grip his arms, trailing upward to the base of his neck, pulling him down closer to you. You could feel him, so damn deep in you, twitching.

Panting heavily into his mouth, your fingers card the back of his soft, cropped hair. "C-Cum in me, need you…t'fuck your cum in me…"

David audibly groans against your babbles, and he shakes his head with laughter. Thrusting into you at a steady pace.

"Pleasepleaseplease—" Your lips brush against his ears, whispering more filth into his ears. His head falls flush onto the sheets.

He was so fucking close to busting his load deep into you like you were begging for. But he couldn't. Not yet.

David's palm comes to stifle your moans, grunting heavy into your ears. "I-I'm not gonna last." He admits quickly, his snapping harder and faster into you.

The room fills with loud and obscene slaps of his cock pounding into you, the slick coating the dirtied brown littered up to his abdomen.

You're drooling into his palms, incoherently moaning and babbling, "mmh—mmh!" The second he pulls off from your mouth, his lips lock onto yours, grunting into your mouth with every one of his thrusts.

"Fuck. Fuck. This pussy — s'fuckin'good…" David pulls away enough to pant the words into your mouth, holding your jaw in place.

Your eyes are rolled back at the full weight he puts behind his thrusts, each one has the coarseness grinding into your clit at a sickening pleasure.

David's transfixed — at just how malleable and cock drunk you were. He tilts your head to him, rolling his tongue into your mouth, suckling at the messy wetness that gathered at the corner of your lips.

He could tell with the way your hips were practically edging towards him that you were close, so he continued with what he was doing, sliding his hand down to rub and massage at your clit until your thighs began to shake around his hips.

David grunts at the way your pussy pulses at his length while you cum, and he feels himself reaching the same point.

"Sh-Shit—…I'm gonna —" He leans down to bite down on your shoulder, groaning through his orgasm, thrusting shallow in you while his cum spurts deep into your walls in jolts.

He slumps entirely into you, breathing heavily, hips rocking inch by inch to keep the dull pleasure burning through your combined orgasms.

You're entirely too fucked out to say a single thing, eyes fluttering shut at the circles he drew at your still quivering thighs.

David sounds your name, slower and gentler. But all you could humour him with was a hum.

“if you're not gonna race here from the north pole to beverly hills just to keep my stocking filled, I know somebody who will”

Gotham’s elite liked to pretend Bruce Wayne could never belong to anyone, that he drifted through parties and boardrooms untouched, untouchable, unmoved. You learned the truth the first time you curled a finger under his chin and watched him soften like the gesture alone rewired something deep inside him. Everyone else saw the city’s most desired man. You saw the quiet surrender in his eyes whenever you spoke his name, the way his shoulders eased when you touched him, the silent promise in every glance that he would give anything you asked for before you could even finish asking.

You never demanded devotion. You simply lived in your worth, steady and sure, and Bruce responded to it the way flowers respond to sunlight. He wanted to give, to anticipate, to show you in every small and extravagant way that your presence in his life was something he cherished.

Tonight he meets you in the foyer of the manor, the lights dim, the room hushed in that familiar way that seems to happen only when you are near. He looks tired from the charity dinner he (somehow) endured without you, yet the moment he sees you, he straightens as if the exhaustion falls away. In his hands he carries a small velvet box, and he offers it with the same cautious reverence someone else might use to offer a prayer. Inside is a necklace of 18k gold and rubies, soft in colour but unmistakably expensive, one he chose because it reminded him of the warmth in your smile.

“Did you get what I asked for?” you say, walking past him with an ease that tells him you already know the answer.

“Yes” he replies, voice gentle, full of something almost shy. “I thought this one would look beautiful on you.”

There it is again, that tenderness that lives beneath his obedience, a quiet eagerness to please that never feels desperate, only sincere. You touch the necklace with the tip of your perfectly manicured finger, then look up at him. His breath catches, subtle but unmistakable, as if your approval alone is enough to steady him.

You smile, soft and sure, and Bruce melts in that way he only ever does for you. The city may cling to its stories about the man who cannot be controlled, but you know the truth. With you he does not need control. He only needs closeness, direction, the certainty that he is giving his affection to someone who knows how much it is worth.

You step closer, and he leans in without thinking, guided by the simple gravity of your presence. You are not cruel. You are not careless. You simply carry yourself with a confidence he finds irresistible. And Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s impossible man, chooses again and again to follow where you lead.

You lift the necklace from the velvet and hold it up between you. The rubies catch the low light, scattering warm color across Bruce’s face. His gaze stays fixed on your hands, attentive in a way that feels almost like a confession.

“Put it on me” you say softly. Not a request. Not quite an order either. Just something you expect to be done.

Bruce comes closer immediately. His fingers brush the back of your neck as he drapes the necklace into place. His touch is careful, slow, almost reverent. You feel the faint tremble in his hands, the way he steadies himself with a quiet breath, and it fills you with that same warm satisfaction you always feel around him.

When the clasp clicks shut, he lets his fingers linger against your skin for just a moment too long. You turn around, lifting your chin slightly so he can see how the diamonds settle perfectly along your collarbone. His eyes soften in a way that is unmistakable.

“You chose well,” you say. Another simple truth, yet it makes his shoulders loosen like you’ve just relieved him of something heavy.

His voice comes quieter now. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You take his hand and lead him into the sitting room. He follows without hesitation, as if the rest of the world has fallen away. You sit on the edge of the couch and guide him to stand in front of you. He looks down at you with that same open, devoted expression he never shows anyone else.

“Long night?” you ask.

He nods. “It always is when you aren’t there.”

There’s no performance in the words. No theatrics. Just honesty. Bruce Wayne, who could lie to the world with a smile, cannot bring himself to hide a single thing from you.

You reach up and smooth your thumb along the corner of his jaw. He leans into the touch instantly, eyes fluttering half-closed. The simple act unravels him more than any sharp command ever could.

“You did well tonight” you murmur. “And you came home to me like I asked. That’s all I ever expect from you.”

That does something to him. His breath hitches, his posture shifts, and a quiet, grateful warmth washes over his features. He kneels—not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly, like gravity is pulling him down and he doesn’t want to fight it.

He rests his hands and chin lightly on your knees, waiting, looking up at you with a softness that borders on devotion.

“Tell me what you need from me now,” he says.

You slide your fingers through his hair, guiding his head just slightly, gently, the way one might guide something precious. He exhales like the air leaves him willingly.

You watch Bruce's eyes soften as he kneels before you, looking up at you like a man at a god’s altar. His fingers tremble around your knees, not from the chill of the room, but from the raw vulnerability he unveils only here, only for you. He inches closer on his knees, the silk rug whispering beneath him, and presses his lips to the inside of your thigh. The kiss lingers, warm and worshipful, his breath ghosting higher.

God, he looks so beautiful like this, you think, heart swelling as his dark lashes flutter up to meet your gaze. My unbreakable vigilante, broken open just for me.

"Please," he rasps, voice a gravelly plea thick with devotion. "Let me adore you. Let me prove I'm yours."

Your fingers weave into his thick, raven hair, tugging gently to draw him nearer. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring at your scent, and his hands—those hands that have shattered bones and saved cities—glide up your calves, knees, thighs with feather-soft reverence. He hooks his thumbs into your panties' lace edges, dragging them down inch by torturous inch, exposing your bare pussy to the air. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but Bruce chases them away with his hot exhale, so close now his nose brushes your core.

He pauses, eyes locked on yours, waiting. Always waiting for your word. You nod, a small smile curving your lips, and he dives in like a man starved. His tongue flattens against your slit, lapping from entrance to clit in one long, deliberate stroke that makes your toes curl. He groans, the sound vibrating straight through you, as he parts your folds with his thumbs, spreading you open for his feast.

Fuck, his mouth. He traces every ridge, every dip, memorizing you anew. Light flicks over your clit, then firmer presses, sucking the nub between his lips with tender pulls that send sparks skittering up your spine. His tongue spears inside, fucking shallowly into your dripping hole, curling to scoop your arousal onto his tastebuds. He swallows audibly, moaning like your wetness is the finest vintage.

"You taste divine," he murmurs, words muffled against your core as he nuzzles deeper. "Sweeter than anything I've ever known. My love... my everything."

Your hips roll instinctively, grinding against his face, and he welcomes it—nose bumping your clit, chin slick with you. He slides one finger alongside his tongue, then two, thick digits stretching you as he pumps slow and deep. Crooking them, he finds that spot, rubbing insistent circles while his lips seal around your clit, sucking harder. Pressure builds, molten and inevitable, your thighs clamping his head.

"Bruce—fuck—" you gasp, fingers yanking his hair.

He hums approval, doubling down, tongue lashing relentlessly. Your pussy flutters, walls squeezing his fingers as climax rips through you. You shatter, flooding his mouth, and he drinks every drop, lapping through the pulses, gentle now, drawing out your bliss until you're trembling, spent.

But he doesn't rush. Kissing your inner thighs, he rises languidly, undressing the rest of you as his lips trail fire up your body: navel, the undersides of your breasts, the hollow of your throat. Each press is a vow. "I live for this," he whispers, nuzzling your jaw, stubble scraping deliciously. "To see you come undone because of me."

You capture his mouth, tongues sliding in a messy, intimate dance, your flavour shared between you. Tasting your triumph on him ignites fresh hunger. Your hands roam his chest, feeling his heart thunder beneath the crisp shirt. Button by button, you strip him, revealing planes of muscle etched from endless nights of justice. His pants follow, kicked aside, and his cock springs free—heavy, veined, the flushed head weeping pre-cum in shiny beads.

"On your back. Now," you command softly, voice threaded with love.

He obeys without hesitation, sprawling across the velvet sofa like a sacrifice, arms outstretched, cock jutting proudly yet untouched. You climb over him, straddling his chest, and he arches up to mouth your breasts. His lips wrap your nipple, tongue swirling wetly before sucking with perfect pressure, teeth grazing just enough to make you hiss. He switches sides, lavishing equal attention, hands cupping your ass to knead gently.

His length throbs against your thigh, smearing sticky trails, but he doesn't thrust, doesn't beg. “So good for me”, you muse before spitting in your palm. You grip his shaft, now soaked from pre-cum and saliva, stroking from root to tip in firm pulls. Bruce bucks, a whine escaping, his cock twitching in your hold.

"Shh, patience, love," you soothe, thumbing his tip before bringing your hands up on his shoulders. Leaning down, you kiss his throat, then align him at your entrance, your pussy still slick from his worship.

Eyes locked on his, you sink down slowly, inch by thick inch, his girth stretching you deliciously full. He gasps, hands flying to your hips, fingers digging in but not guiding—yielding to your control. Bottomed out, you pause, clenching around him as you adjust to his size, drawing a guttural moan from deep in his chest. He's yours to use, to ruin, to cherish.

You start with a grind, hips circling to rub your clit against his pubic bone, his cock dragging every sensitive ridge inside you. Then lifts—rising until just the tip kisses your folds—before slamming down, taking him balls-deep. The slap of skin echoes, wet and obscene. Bruce's head thrashes, abs flexing, but his eyes stay reverent, drinking in your bouncing breasts, your parted lips.

"Yes... ride me, please," he begs breathlessly, voice wrecked. "Use me. Fill yourself with me."

You pick up pace, bouncing harder, thighs burning sweetly as you claim him. His cock pistons in and out, veins pulsing against your walls, head nudging your cervix with every drop. Hands braced on his chest, nails scraping his pale skin, you lean forward with hair curtaining your faces and capture his mouth in a devouring kiss. Tongues tangle as you fuck yourself on him, pace relentless yet laced with tenderness.

Sweat slicks your bodies, his balls tightening beneath you. You straighten, one hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit, the other pinching his nipple. "Don't come yet," you murmur, slowing to torturous rolls. "Wait for my word. Serve me first."

He whimpers, nodding frantically, hips twitching upward in shallow thrusts you allow. The control unravels him, Gotham's stoic guardian reduced to pleas. You speed again, riding rough, pussy fluttering as your own peak nears. "Now, Bruce. Come inside for me, fill me up."

He shatters with a whine, cock swelling, pulsing hot jets deep into your core—rope after thick rope painting your cunt white. The sensation tips you over: orgasm crashing, milking every drop from him as you grind through it, his cum leaking out around his base.

You collapse onto his chest, both panting, his arms wrapping you tight. He stays buried inside, softening slowly, as aftershocks ripple. Soft kisses pepper your temple, your shoulder. "Thank you," he whispers, voice thick with awe. "For letting me give you everything."

The first one to go was Clark, who gifted Steve a mug with the logo of his favorite football team, mostly a way to make up for accidentally breaking his last week.

Then it was your turn, who have gifted Jimmy a shitty disposable camera, laughing when he started to rant about how horrible the quality of these types of cameras is.

Cat was up next, and truly, you should have known.

Her glossed lips were curled into a smirk that anticipated nothing good, as she handed you a tacky gift bag that left your hands covered in glitter once you took it.

The content was hidden by some red crinkle paper, which you quickly took out, only to feel your cheeks warming up at the sight.

"Come on, what is it?" Lois asked, trying to peak inside the bag.

She leaned over your shoulder and started to laugh hysterically when she saw what was hidden inside.

Cat had gifted you a cheap Christmas themed lingerie set.

The red thong – barely a string – is completely see-through, defeating the purpose of wearing one at all.

The bra is made of the same synthetic material, the only difference is the white fluffy trim on the cups, which looks like it would completely disintegrate if you tried to put it in the washing machine.

"Two people made happy with one gift, right Clark?" Cat asked your boyfriend, who looked like he was about to combust on the spot.

Everyone laughed, and Jimmy even used the disposable camera to take a photo of you holding the set, your face showing all of the embarrassment you were feeling in that moment.

The rest of the night went fine, but you could tell your boyfriend had something on his mind.

Once you got home, his lips were immediately on yours, and he only broke the kiss to beg you to put the lingerie set on.

So you can say that it's Cat's fault for your current position.

Your knees are pushed to your chest, and Clark is pounding into you, letting out a groan when your walls tighten around him.

He didn't even bother to take off the thong, simply pushing it to the size.

One of his hands is placed on the mattress on the side of your head, careful not to crush you with his weight.

The other is playing with your clothed boob, his big hand palming it.

Your soft moans echo in the room, and your hands, previously placed on the muscles of his back, slide on his cheek, pulling him in for a kiss.

His moans mix with yours, and they only get intensify when Clark starts to play with your clit.

You bite his lower lip, drawing a whine from him.

"Please, baby, I– golly... Cum for me pretty girl."

His thrusts become more erratic as he gets closer to his orgasm.

His cock is hitting your cervix repeatedly, making the coil in your stomach tighten.

"Clark, ugh shit-" you babble, the feeling too good to formulate a proper sentence.

His hips meet your a few times more before the both of you reach your release.

His warm cum drips out of your stretched out hole after he carefully slides out, staining the red thong.

Your eyes are close as you try to recover, your breath heavy.

Clark wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you closer to him, his lips finding your temple and leaving soft kisses.

"You did so good, darling," he whispers again your skin, waiting for you to fully recover before cleaning up the both of you.

Cat was right after all.

Her gift did make the both of you happy.

A/N: This was the fic! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, even if it’s criticism (as long as it’s constructive). I love talking with you angels, so my dms and inbox are always open.

You were the only thing on his mind. Lingering just in front of the grief and shock of his last few days was the thought of you. Your voice, your warm skin and equally warm smile, holding him close and telling him everything would be alright, that this was okay. That you would still be there. 

As he fought to breathe through the poison in his lungs and the pain blurring the lines of his vision, he was thinking of you with exceeding desperation.

He had to see you. Hear your voice. Let himself be held by you. Let the radiance of your proximity wash over him, sustaining him better than the sun ever could. He didn’t call you sunshine for nothing.

Gosh, it was all he could think, after everything. It was all he could say.

Sunshine. My sunshine. Have to see my sunshine.

Lois was giving him odd looks that he caught whenever he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than thirty seconds. He was well-accustomed to her scrutiny, but the way she was looking at him now gave him the impression that she was far more concerned about her friend than she was journalistically inquisitive. Even so, Clark knew her well enough to know that she was undoubtedly dying to pry—to wedge the shovel of her poison pen beneath his weakened exterior and dig up the history in his pleading eyes.

The fact that she did not question a single thing said a lot about their friendship. Distantly, Clark thought to thank her later with a gift card to Jitters. Maybe a freshly baked platter of cookies that he’d take the credit for but really he owed everything to his Ma’s recipe, scribbled in the margins of a small notebook she’d given him for college.

He would write a little note as though pen and paper could make up for the hell he’d put her through. Sorry you had to save me from a pocket universe, it would read. I promise to try and not have another identity crisis that results in my incarceration and slow, painful torture from which you feel obligated to rescue me from.

Unfortunately, any remuneration would have to wait until he could lift his head without feeling like he was going to nosedive through the floor.

“I think we’re here,” he heard Lois’ voice, steady and even despite everything that she’d been through in recent hours.

Hours. Had it already been hours? Time passed funny when you were wading in and out of consciousness.

“Sunshine,” he was mumbling before he could stop himself. “M-my sunshine—”

Thankfully, he had enough of his wits about him to not say your actual name, at least not until the T-Craft had landed safely on the edge of the Kents’ forty-some acres of farmland. Who knew what kind of bugs Mr. Terrific had in his aircraft. And no one—not even the members of the Justice Gang—knew about you. Of course, Lois was surely about to find out, but the ramifications of that were the furthest thing from his mind.

My sunshine. I need to see you. I’m coming home. I think I’m almost home.

“Yes, we’re here, Clark.” Darn it, he must’ve said all that out loud. “You gotta help me, okay?”

Yes, he sighed, and his lungs burned in protest. Internally or externally he could hardly discern. Please. I need to see her.

Krypto was prancing in anxious circles the moment the aircraft touched the ground. A violent shiver wracked Clark’s body when Lois appeared at his side, struggling to curl his arm over her shoulder and hoist him out of the comparatively small seat. His hulking size didn’t help matters, though Clark did everything in his limited power to help her.

Unfortunately, most of his brain was preoccupied with finding you. Seeing you. Hearing you. Feeling you.

My sunshine.

Golly, his head was spinning.

“C’mon, big guy,” Lois strained with the effort of lifting him. He felt horrible. Guilt-ridden and ashamed that she had to see him like this, broken and battered. He worried about his parents’ reaction, too; because of course he’d inherited his obsessive level of worry from them.

Everything about everything was just…awful.

Please, oh please. My sunshine. I need you to make it better.

The stairs of the T-Craft whirred mechanically as they unfurled. Together they trudged down the stairs and into the misty midwestern night. Clark had no idea what time it was, but sincerely hoped it wasn’t too late. His Ma and Pa needed their rest. He shouldn’t be disturbing them like this, least of all after what they’d just learned. For Pete’s sake, he shouldn’t even be showing his face—

His parents were in front of him, worried expressions drawn tight across their faces. And the guilt was quickly replaced with relief at the familiarity of their warm eyes. 

Family. Home. 

“I’m Martha, this is John,” Ma explained as Pa stepped forward to help Lois.

“Lois,” she greeted as Krypto loped across the dewy lawn.

“Oh, goodness gracious. What on earth happened?” Ma was frantic, eyes scanning his disheveled body as the four of them trudged slowly to the ranch.

“Very long story,” he heard Lois mumble. “He’s…it’s from Kryptonite,” she offered as Ma urgently scanned his tattered face. Her own face fell at Lois’ words.

Perhaps a little selfishly, Clark was still mostly distracted by his thoughts of your proximity and how close he was to being in your arms. Your shared residence was about a two hour drive West of Smallville, which was a hell of a lot closer than he usually was to you in Metropolis. 

If he were in better shape, he could find you by your heartbeat. He’d done it so many times, it was like breathing. But breathing right now was a grueling effort, and his senses were depleted. He wasn’t himself, in more ways than solely physical. Simply put, Clark didn’t know who he was anymore.

But you did.

You carried a piece of him with you, always. Perhaps without realizing. You cherished every part of him in ways he’d never understand, and right now he needed more than anything to have you remind him of who he was. To the world as Superman, but more importantly, to you as Clark Kent.

He must’ve been babbling again, because his Ma was hushing him in the same tone she’d used when he would cry as a boy. “You’re alright, son. It’s okay. She’s on her way, comin’ as fast as she can.”

She’s on her way.

The relief punched through his body harder than the Kryptonite had.

He didn’t remember being ushered up the front porch, down the hallway of his childhood where he struggled to fit in. Now, in more ways than one. The pictures that lined the walls felt mocking; representative of a life he thought he’d known. A weight he thought he knew how to carry.

Pa and Lois helped him onto his bed, which was uncomfortably small. Even as a sprouting teenager, the twin XL did little to contain his abnormally large frame. As a grown adult, his feet hung awkwardly over the end of the bed, calves digging into the footboard.

Clark hardly knew what was spewing from his mouth—garbled sounds, distressed huffs. A few incoherent words, distraught pleas to his Ma and Pa about the ugly truth of his heritage, as tears seared down the sides of his sweaty face. But once again, you were always right there, lingering just beneath the surface of his pool of sorrow.

Sunshine. Sunshine. Sunshine.

It was too dark without you.

“She’s on her way, sweetheart,” Ma spoke, and nonsensical as he was, he could still hear the pain bleeding into her voice at the sight of her son, so obviously wounded beyond what the eye could see. Pa was on his other side. He could feel a hand, calloused as his own, resting gently on his shoulder.

“Who is she?” it was Lois, somewhere across the room. Curious, as always, but careful.

Pa says your name. Even hearing it is like feeling the sun caress the cockles of his heart. “Our other Mrs. Kent,” he adds.

There was a pause. Then, the single, incredulous “oh,” from his colleague.

“Sh-she’s almost here?” Clark hears himself ask Ma, because he can’t help it.

“Yes, Clark,” Ma says, her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay awake.

“I had no idea that he was…” Lois trails off, sounding slightly mesmerized.

“Nobody does,” Pa supplied. “And we’d sure like to keep it that way, hm?” Pa’s voice was threatening in the way that calm lingered before a storm. Most often, the cell would pass with nothing but the threat—the smell of rain, a warning of downpour. But the threat, the promise, was there.

“Of course. I would never say anything,” Lois responds. She sounds sincere. Lois Lane is sharp and cunning and full of more spitfire than the Kaiju he’d fought, but she is always sincere.

“Ma,” Clark could feel himself fading. “Ma. I need her. Please, I n-n—”

“I know, Clark. I know. You just relax. You’ll be alright. If you can't wait up for her tonight, you’ll see her in the mornin’, okay?”

He’d been about to protest when he felt it. Felt you. Even with muted senses, there was no denying the slam of the screen door. The spike in his hearing, reaching out to listen for your breath. He felt his body lift slightly off the bed, only to be gently pushed back down by his parents.

Sunshine?

He calls for you. Your real name, this time.

“Clark?!”

Your panicked voice makes his stomach twist.

No, don’t hurt, sunshine. Please, it’s alright.

You burst into the room and the entire atmosphere shifts. Pa gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Ma loops her arm through Lois’, whose eyes had immediately locked onto yours. Everyone vacates the room quickly and quietly; even Lois goes with nothing more than a questioning look, though Clark knows he owes her an explanation in the near future.

Meanwhile, you haven’t torn your eyes from him.

“Oh god, oh god,” your face twists in misery at the sight of him. And although he hates to see you hurting—especiallybecause of him—the selfish bits of his soul can’t help but feel relieved. He feels it in every bone in his body, the way you lift the burden of his sorrows simply by existing in the same space, pouring your light onto him without even trying.

Between the two of you, you had always been the stronger one. He’s not afraid to admit that.

Despite his body’s protests, his shaking arms encircle you the moment you’re within reach. His nose burrows into the junction of your neck and shoulder, and he doesn’t even care that he’s crying anymore. Can no longer hear the sound of his own warbled voice above the pounding tempo of your heart.

“Clark,” you breathe, voice low and trembling.

“My sunshine,” he stammers. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am, baby,” you say as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. He shakes beneath you. You’re real and warm and smell like home. He can no longer discern why he’s crying—physical pain? Emotional turmoil? His parents’ message? Or is it nothing more than the relief of feeling you?

“Oh Clark.” Like him, you’re shuddering. “You…they told me…are you—” you start and suddenly stop when his muscles spasm with phantom pain. He doesn’t mean for you to see, but close as you are there’s no hiding the way his body shakes like it’s just now remembering the poison in his blood.

The usual firmness in his embrace is lacking and he knows it. You know it.

“Okay, okay. Just relax,” you say next, and your voice shifts like day to night, slow and seamless. It’s remarkable how easily you’ve slipped into the tone he needs—soothing, calm. Simply present. Your palm splays at the top of his head before combing through his messy curls with the kind of tenderness that makes him think you’ve forgotten that he’s indestructible.

Well, maybe not entirely.

“I’ve got you, Clark.”

His jaw quivers against your skin. “D-did…you see the…the video–”

“That doesn’t matter right now. Just breathe, rest.”

“I’m so sorry, I–”

“It’s okay.”

“Tha-that’s not me. I would never hurt anybody– please, I—”

“Clark,” he feels a kiss pressed to the crown of his head. When you pull back to look at him, there’s a desperation in your eyes that he’s helpless to ignore. “I know that. Right now you have to focus on healing, okay? You’re very hurt.”

“M’fine,” he tries. A last-ditch effort to abate the deepening concern in your eyes.

“Right. And I’m Batman.”

“M’jus’ a little banged up…”

“It’s Kryptonite poisoning, Clark. That’s more than a little banged up.” You’re examining him, he realizes. Cupping his cheek and tracing the lines of his face, neck, and shoulders with your worried eyes. Gosh, he can’t stand it. Can’t stand to see you fretting over him. Even if it secretly means the world, even if all he wants is the reassurance that someone still sees him for him in spite of the world’s shifting view. But he doesn’t want you to suffer for it.

He tries to speak, but his voice catches like sandpaper against his dry throat. The sound is mangled, rough. It pinches your brows together and you’re cradling his face now. Horrifically, he sees your eyes turn glassy. He moves his shaking hand to rest over yours.

“Oh god, Clark. You could…you could’ve died—”

His heart clenches again.

It’s okay.

I’m okay.

Don’t worry.

All that comes out instead is a disoriented whine.

“Don’t go.” he finally manages instead of the comforting words he’d wanted to give you. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you say with as much finality as you can muster. But then you try to move like you’re leaving, like you’re lying, and he can’t have that.

“Stay,” he slurs, and uses what little strength he has left to ensnare you in his hold.

You grumble in protest. “I am. There’s just not enough room for both of us.” You’re right, but he doesn’t care.

“Stay,” he repeats, and that’s all it takes. Maybe you’re equally as helpless in denying him as he is in denying you. Maybe you both care a little too deeply and that’s part of why he can’t let you go and why he knows you wouldn’t actually leave this room if your life depended on it.

You clamber awkwardly onto the bed, and it squeaks as you give your best attempt to get comfortable in the tiny rectangle of space that remains after he’s filled almost the entire mattress. You flinch like he’s burned you when he winces as you’re getting settled, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to kiss away the pinch in your brows.

“Clark, I’m going to hurt you,” your eyes threaten to spill over. “I don’t want to make it worse. You…please. You need to heal.”

Unfortunately, he’s already content to doze off now that you’re here; one arm draped across his chest, your legs carefully brushing his. He reaches a hand down to the bend of your knee and swings your leg over his waist to bring you closer.

“Could never hurt me,” he mumbles into the top of your hair. “Jus’ stay. Need you t’hold me, sunshine. Please.”

He hears a sigh of defeat leave your lips when he shudders through another sharp ache that wracks his entire body.

Right, Kryptonite. He was poisoned. He was injured. He is hurt. It’s easy to forget when you're this close.

“Oh, Clark,” you whisper. The hand across his chest moves to caress his cheek, fingertips ghosting over his stubble before tracing the black tendrils of his sickened veins down the side of his neck.

“My sunshine,” he manages as his eyes slide closed. He sounds pathetic, and although he wants nothing more than to be strong for you he knows it’s more than he can manage right now. You’re right—he needs rest, but he couldn’t have gotten it without you.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” you exhale into the space beneath his jaw. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just rest. It’s okay.”

“M’ s-sorry…”

“It’s alright. I’m here. I love you, Clark. I don’t care about the video, okay? I’m here because I love you. Without exception.”

I love you. It makes his heart want to sing it back, but he’s just too tired. So he hums low in the back of his throat, attempting to let his body relax now that you’re at his side.

As it always does, your presence works like cough syrup around a sore throat. Soothing and calming the inflamed bits of him.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

He vaguely feels himself nodding.

My sunshine.

You settle over him like dusk, and he slips into a dreamless sleep.

~~~~

It’s just his luck that he wakes feeling almost as miserable as the night before. Despite being physically restored, the doom and gloom of his thoughts did not seem to evaporate overnight. He wakes feeling just as bad about everything—the video of his parents, Mali’s death, his failure to save the rest of the prisoners in Luthor’s pocket-prison, Lois and Terrific putting themselves in danger for his sake. Heck, he still feels awful about the Justice Gang’s rather violent elimination of Kaiju.

And of course, he’s sickened by the stress he’s put you under. Because he knows you as well as you know him, and he’s aware that you worry yourself sick every time that he’s gone. Which recently, has been more than he’s preferred. Now, with everything that’s happened, he knows you were beside yourself at the news. At the unknown. And he despairs over the fact that he couldn’t get to you sooner to explain—that you were the one finding him, and in this wretched state no less. Really, he should be the one comforting you.

But golly, does it feel nice to be on the receiving end of your warmth.

When he wakes, you’re no longer in bed with him. He’d expected as much; it wasn’t ideal trying to sleep whilst half hanging off the mattress. In your place is the white fuzzy mass of his cousin’s mutt, tail thumping rhythmically against the comforter with barely contained energy.

Clark sighs, bringing a hand to stroke Krypto’s head when the door creaks open.

Krypto’s ears flop up, the left one obnoxiously high in his signature look of curiosity, and he starts shaking in excitement at the sight of you. He pushes off of Clark’s stomach, and his groan of protest makes you scold the dog softly.

“I thought you’d be in here. Hey! Gentle. What did we talk about?”

For whatever reason, Krypto listens to you more than he listens to…well, anyone. The dog gives a soft whine before nuzzling your legs as you approach. Clark smiles at the sight, sitting up in bed as you give Krypto a scratch behind his perked ear.

“Alright. I think Ma cooked up some extra bacon. Go pester her for a bit, yeah?”

He gives your shorts a playful tug before loping down the hall. You close the door softly behind him and wander over to the side of the bed.

You look tired in the way that someone who just woke up does, and he adds your lack of sleep to the long list of things currently dampening his mood. 

“Hey,” you say.

“Hi,” he greets. Although he is just as lost for words as he was when he was writhing in pain, Clark is sure his eyes convey enough of his inner turmoil given the way that you sit at the side of the bed with a steadying breath.

His hand immediately seeks yours. He brushes his thumb over your wedding ring, eyes settling on your face. Right away, you get the message.

With a shy smile you remove your hand from his to click open the large, intricate locket you never go anywhere without. It sits right over your heart, made from bits of the Fortress’ sunstone crystals. A single ring falls into your palm, and you click the necklace shut again. Then you’re grabbing his left hand to slide the band home at the base of his ring finger. You press a kiss over the jewelry. Then another for every knuckle.

Clark is watching you fondly the entire time, like you hold the sun itself in your hands. His smile broadens when a gorgeous flush appears on your cheeks under his stare.

Your eyes dance across his face and upper body. “How are you feeling?”

He can’t stop looking at you. “Better. Normal.”

You nod with a shaky sigh. “Good. That’s good.” Clark watches your throat dip as you swallow, before looking between his eyes with a raw sort of pain that all at once makes his chest feel like it’s being cracked open. “I was so worried,” you say in a whisper.

“I know,” his voice is just as quiet. “I’m sorry. Gosh, I’m so sorry, baby…” he lets his head thunk back against the headboard.

“Hey,” you grip his fingers. “Don’t. Don’t do that, Clark.”

“What?” he asks.

“Talk like everything bad that’s ever happened is a result of your personal failure.”

His jaw clenches. “It sort of feels that way right now.”

“I’m sure it does,” you say. “But that doesn’t make it true. You’re a good person, Clark. The best I know. The best any of us know.”

He can’t look you in the eye as he huffs derisively. “Doesn’t matter. None of it was real. None of it was honest.”

“Why?” you challenge. “Because your birth parents said so?”

Clark shakes his head. How is he supposed to explain? How is he supposed to tell you how utterly unwound he feels? As though someone unstrung his innards and used them to spell out his truth for the whole world to see? How is he supposed to tell you that he's responsible for an innocent man's death? That that very thing is what his parents would have wanted? 

“You don’t understand,” he says weakly. “It…I thought I knew who I was. That I was sent here to help people. To keep them safe.”

“You are. You do.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not the same anymore.”

“It is to me,” you say firmly. “Clark, you’ve dedicated your entire life to helping others. That doesn’t stop or magically go away because the context of that video is different from what you originally thought. And…” you pause for breath, and maybe for courage. “And I don’t believe that you’re the person you are today solely because of your biological parents. I’m sorry, but I don’t.” You hold his hand a little tighter. “You never knew them. Not in the ways that mattered. And I know that’s bothered you, but…if that's who they were, then you're nothing like them, Clark. You’re an amalgamation of the people who know and love you now, the people you’ve helped. Your Ma and Pa. Kara. Me. Lois and Jimmy. Every cat you’ve rescued from a tree. Every person and life you’ve saved.”

He can’t break away from the fierce determination in your eyes even if he wants to. With the gravitational pull of a burning star, you draw him in. “You get your never-ending caring and hope for this world from the people you’ve surrounded yourself with. They’re just as much a part of why you do what you do as your birth parents were.”

Clark feels his jaw tremble. Feels the words seep in through his skin like rays of sunlight. This is why he needs you. Why you, above everyone and everything else, were more precious than anything.

Still, it’s difficult to believe, even coming from you. How is he supposed to accept that his parents’ intention was for him to destroy the planet? To harm the very people he’d sworn his life away to protect? Even if he was the result of his upbringing, the foundation of his morals as Superman were all wrong. Corrupted. Misguided.

“I don’t know how to exist without that part of me,” he says.

“No one said you had to,” you say gently. “You’ll always be Kryptonian. But it’s what you value about that heritage that counts. And to me, what you’ve valued the most is the very thing that sets you apart from the rest of us.” He grounds himself in the way your fingertips brush across his knuckles. You continue with a fire in your eyes that warms him to his core. “The strength. The speed. Every other one of your gifts. Clark, you’ve spent your life using what makes you different not to harm, not to conquer, though you so easily could. But to help. To do good. And I think that selflessness is what makes you just the same as any decent human who’s ever known what it means to be different.”

He’s lost for words any longer than, “thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t realize he’s pulled you close until you’re nearly chest to chest in an awkward standing-sitting hug.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you say. “I love you too.”

“Thank you,” he breathes. “For just…just being you. Being here.”

“Of course, Clark. We'll get through it together, okay?” you soothe, and he feels your breath travel down his neck. He wants you closer. You hesitate at the push and pull of his hands.

“I’m better. Promise. No more pain,” he reassures you.

Through the curtains, the early afternoon sun flickers across your face, and it makes the sparkle in your eyes dance as you allow him to pull you into his lap. Your arms go around his neck and then he’s falling into your chest, letting you cradle his skull as he breathes you in.

“I missed you,” he mumbles, the cool chain of your locket pressing into his cheek.

“I missed you more,” comes your response.

“Is Lois still here?” he asks. He’s certain that she’s buzzing to interrogate him.

“Left early this morning,” you say. “Something about Jimmy’s unimaginable penchant for snagging women and saving the day.”

Clark presses a kiss to your collarbone, making a mental note to send her a text. Right now, though, he’s content to feel the way you rise and fall slightly in his lap with every one of his breaths.

“Are you upset that she knows?” he asks, because he’s genuinely curious. When Lois had pieced together for herself that he was Superman, there was no talking himself out of it. She wasn’t a sharp-witted, Pulitzer-prize winning investigative journalist for no reason. But for as long as you two had been together, Clark had kept your marriage a successful secret from everyone who knew of his alter ego. You’d agreed it was better off that way, even if it was difficult.

He’d been Superman for nearly three years now. He believed in the good of humanity, but he’d also seen some of its worst. If the wrong people got word that he was married, he might as well paint a giant red target on your back, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you put in danger because of him.

“No,” you say carefully. “I liked Lois from everything you’ve told me about her. And she was very understanding when we spoke this morning, if not a little shocked about the whole thing. But I trust her. And I know you do too.”

He absently rubs his hands up and down the length of your back. You’re in one of his high school t-shirts; he’d long outgrown them and had been more than happy to donate them for a better cause.

“Okay,” he says, before kissing the heart-shaped dip of your collarbone.

Clark withdraws slowly to look at you. You’re beautiful. So, so pretty. He doesn’t deserve you. Your kindness and honesty. Your willingness to be patient with him, to understand when he has to miss dates or anniversaries and still welcome him with open arms when he returns to you. To stand at his side even when the rest of the world has turned against him. To patch his wounds in the ways only you know how. 

That beautiful blush reappears, and you give him a bashful smile. “Stop it.”

“Hm?” he hums innocently.

You fiddle with the fabric of his cape. “Looking at me like that.”

“I’d apologize, but I’m not actually sorry, so that’d be a lie.” He rubs his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “I just like looking at you. You’re so beautiful. So bright. It’s like having my own personal sun following me wherever I go.”

You lean in to brush your nose with his. “You’re a hopeless romantic,” you say breathily, and he hears the way your heart speeds up.

“Not hopeless. Heartfelt.”

You giggle, and it flutters around in his ears like birdsong.

“I’m so grateful you’re okay,” you say softly, nudging his nose. “When Ma told me what happened, I thought—”

“Hey,” he stops you with a reassuring squeeze of your hips. It’s fascinating how he reacts to the intense way in which you fret over him; he craves the attention of the person who knows him better than anyone while simultaneously wanting to prevent anything negative from ever harming your spirit, including himself. “I’ll be okay.”

Your gaze turns firm. “You’re a good man, Clark Kent. Don’t ever let the Luthors of this world make you doubt that.”

“I’ll try,” is the best he can promise you. Because it still hurts, everything about it, and he won’t deny that. But you’ve done your due diligence in assuaging the guilt, just as he thought you would. Like a seasoned surgeon, Clark can feel the stitches of your words piecing him back together with meticulous precision. But scars take time to heal.

You place a gentle, barely-there kiss against his upper lip, and his body reawakens like prodded coals over a dying flame.

“I know the man I married,” you breathe against his mouth, hips shifting above his. “And I know he’s wholly good. Full of kindness. Compassion. Sincerity.” You ghost another kiss against his lips, and he chases you on an exhale as you withdraw.

“What’s the saying?” he asks, firming his grip on your waist to halt your wiggling. It’s making it difficult to focus. “Behind every great man there’s a greater woman?”

You chew on your lower lip, and it takes all his willpower not to pluck it from your teeth with his thumb. “I don’t know if that applies in our case. Is anyone greater than Superman?”

“I think you know my answer to that, sunshine.” Just like that, he can’t take it anymore. He kisses you soundly, reverent and slow. You breathe life into his lungs with the way you press closer, humming in pure bliss. Your fingers curl into his hair, tentative at first as though you’re still concerned with breaking him. Which, to be fair, you absolutely have the power to do so. Just not in the sense he thinks you’re worried about.

Clark often forgets that you need air a great deal faster than he does, but is reminded of this fact when you’re the first to pull back. You don’t go far, especially not with him chasing after you, nosing along your jaw and peppering kisses on any spare inch of skin his greedy lips can find. 

After a few long breaths you guide him back to your lips. He lets you tilt his head with your palms across his jaw. He lets you lead. Lets you have anything and everything you want, always.

You’re running your hands down his front, fingers catching over the dirtied crest across his chest when your kisses turn breathier.

“Mmm. You need a shower,” you murmur into his lips.

His answer comes in the way he swings his legs over the side of the bed, easily lifting you into his arms. You squeal in surprise, fingers curling into his cape as you giggle into his neck.

“Ma got breakfast keepin’ warm in the oven?” he asks, relishing in the way your thighs squeeze around his abdomen.

You nod. “More like lunch. It’s past noon, Superman,” you tease, scattering kisses across the muscles of his neck.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. He had been exhausted and more than needed the rest, but he shouldn’t have kept you all waiting so long. But since you already had… “Surely a few more minutes won’t kill anyone.”

In truth, he doesn’t think he could let you go if he tried. He’s drawn to you in a deeply intimate, inexplicable way. Has been since you were bumbling, bashful, teenagers dancing together at Smallville High’s homecoming. And though he’s usually perfectly content holding you without expecting anything more, right now he needs you close in a way that is only satisfied by his baser instincts.

Especially considering recent events, he just can’t help it—he needs your touch, craves it like a bird longs for empty sky, captivated by the promise of freedom and light. In the wake of his reputation’s imminent destruction, he needs it now more than ever. Craves the pacifying nature of your touches; in equal measure, he longs to undo you as much as you undo him.

“Clark,” you’re breathing heavily against the crook of his neck, hiding as he walks down the hallway to the sole bathroom in the Kent residence. “I'm sure your parents will notice if we're hogging the bathroom.”

“You said it's past noon? I’m sure Pa’s already tending to the cows,” he counters. “Ma’s likely on the porch micromanaging. And,” he gently nudges the bathroom door shut with his heel, “you’re my wife. I need you.” He sets you down, and the room feels laughably small as you both crowd the space. He doesn’t let you get far, cradling your skull and guiding you to look up at him as he draws near. “They understand. Wouldn’t have called you otherwise.”

It’s an obvious guilt trip and you both know it. But it works. Golly, does it work. Because you’re looking at him with a face full of surrender and he can smell the way the air turns between you.

“Please?” he asks next. He always does. It’s more than a courtesy, it’s about reciprocation. He only wants you if he knows you want him too. “Please touch me, sunshine? I needed you so bad these last few days.”

You nod, and in the next beat he’s already slanted his mouth to yours. You kiss with the blended weight of anticipation and relief, and when you touch each other next, clothes start hitting the tile.

He’s working down your shorts as you fumble with the faucet you both forgot to turn on so the water could heat. Your hands struggle with the clasp of his cape and the zip beneath. It’s always an adventure trying to get his suit off, and after all these years Clark has accepted that there’s simply no sexy way to do it. You share a few laughs and at one point he almost falls over trying to get down the ridiculous trunks, but he’s easily distracted by your scaldingly warm hands over his bare chest.

When the last of his uniform finally hits the ground, it feels like shedding a second skin. Despite everything, Clark still cherishes being Superman—it's a privilege and an honor. By now, it’s so intricately interwoven into who he is that sometimes he can’t distinguish between the two parts of himself. However, for once he lets himself accept the wave of relief as red and blue crumple on the floor. The weightlessness that comes with finally getting to be Clark Kent again. He has a lot to work through in the coming days, what with trying to re-learn what the cape means to both him and the rest of the world. Right now, though, he’s giving himself some grace. He’s being selfish.

He's forgetting it all in favor of feeling you, and letting you feel him in return. 

Your hands light a trail as you explore the planes of his body, which twitches and tingles beneath your warm fingertips. Clark is equally as exploratory, pinning you softly against the countertop as his palms skirt the outline of your naked body. 

He'd been with you just over a week ago, but each time feels new, somehow. He gets the same thrill out of touching you that he did the very first time. He chalks it up to your mysterious ability of making him feel born anew every time you touch him—as though the way you beam unto him causes him to blossom into your light. In fact, he becomes so overwhelmed with the feel of your skin beneath his hands that he shakes. 

"Clark…" you notice right away, because of course you do. 

"I'm okay," he pleads, words muffled because he can't take his lips away from your skin. "Just…I missed you so much." 

That seems to shatter something in you, a broken whine rattling from your chest as you arch your body into his. In an attempt to not run up his parents' water bill, Clark blindly shoves the shower curtain aside, guiding you into the cramped space. 

You hiss in discomfort when you step over the lip of the tub. Clark quickly steps in behind you, bearing the brunt of the still-cool water that is clearly taking longer than it should to warm up. He'll have to take a look at the water heater later. 

As is the rest of the Kent ranch, the shower is quaint and by all means not designed to accommodate a 6'4 Kryptonian, let alone a 6'4 Kryptonian and his wife. But you've made it work before, and you're both too eager and too overcome with longing that you're willing to ignore the claustrophobia of the small tub. 

Clark's head sits a good few inches above the line of the shower curtain, but he doesn't mind at all. Particularly because he's not spending much time standing straight anyway, head and lips preoccupied with leaning down to ravage your mouth with his. 

Your bodies dampen quickly under the spray and every touch becomes slippery. Your nails clutch his shoulders as he tucks you against the corner of the shower furthest from the warming water; you're generating enough of your own heat, anyway. 

"Clark," you whine his name like a desperate prayer and he knows instantly what you're asking for. If he didn't, surely the way your hips were moving against his solid thigh would've clued him in. 

He manages to wrench a hand away from your beautiful face to slide down the front of your body. He detours at one of your breasts, distracted by the way your nipple—already almost fully erect from the cold water—hardens further under his attention. He can't help himself, leaning down to replace his fingers with the warm muscle of his tongue. You arch into him instantly, hooking a leg over his hip and shamelessly grinding against his cock as your head tilts back against the acrylic wall. 

Even with the water swirling over your bodies, he can feel the wetness of your cunt as it slips against his cock, intoxicating in its invitation of heat. He can't help his groan, mouth popping off of your breast when the sensitive tip of him just barely catches at your entrance. 

Suddenly there's two tight little hands entangled in his damp hair. 

"Clark," you beg. "Please, just…just—"

His brows pinch together as he attempts to distract you with a kiss. "Gotta prep you." His thumb finally swirls over your engorged clit as he says it, and the reaction is instantaneous, evidenced by the change in pitch of your whines. 

He's not trying to be cruel, but Clark knows he's—as Jimmy once crudely suggested—"largely endowed". Hell, he remembers the bulging of your eyes the first time you'd been about to have sex. He'd blushed profusely and stammered through reassurances, promising he'd take as much care and time as you needed to prepare for him. Suffice it to say that penetration had not been successful that night, but that was perfectly fine with Clark. It was the first time you'd let him go down on you as an alternative. 

Of course, several years of marriage later and he's gotten it down to a science. You weren't nearly as prepared to take him as you could—as you should—be. Especially standing up. 

Apparently, you're hellbent on torturing him today. Which is so, so cruel. Don't you remember the last few days he's had? 

"I don't care," you shudder the words against his mouth. "Please, I just want to feel you. I want…I want you to feel me, use me, just…just please." 

Good golly. He's stronger than this. He knows he is. But you reduce him to fragments of the man who's saved the world countless times. Fragments only you have the power to put back together with your lips and your hands and your sweet, sweet, pussy that's so warm and so wet and he can smell how eager you are—

"I don't want to hurt you," he forces himself to say it. In part because it's true, but also because it's the only way for him to cling onto his wavering restraint. 

You understand his hesitation. He knows this because when you guide his eyes to yours, they're purely soft. The lust lingers, simmering at the surface of your blown pupils, but the look on your face is gentle. Reassuring. Wanting. 

"You won't, I promise," you whisper. "I missed you, I missed having this. Especially with everything that's happened." You place a gentle kiss on his lips. "I want you to make love to me, Clark. Just wanna be close to you." 

The decision is made before you even finish speaking. All it took was one flash of those soft, overly delicate eyes for him to melt. 

Clark plants a peck on your kiss-swollen lips. "You'll tell me if it's too much?"

You nod. "You know I always do." Then your hips are resuming their torturously slow grind against his, and his eyelids flutter at the feeling. 

You kiss him as he reaches between you to align himself. He makes a show of rubbing the sensitive head over your clit, just enough to make the need boil over and drive you both mad with anticipation. When he can no longer stand it, Clark pushes into you slowly. Everything around him narrows to the singular point of your pleasure—the way your expression sharpens at the intrusion; the way your nails bite into his biceps. 

"Oh, sunshine." The sound he lets out is low and obscene, but in an attempt to be mindful of his lurking parents, he presses it into your mouth instead. 

You smother your own cry against his lips too, gasping at the feeling of being split open by him. The pause he gives you to adjust lingers longer than usual, because he'd meant what he said about not wanting to hurt you. That, and the feeling of your velvet-coated cunt wrapped so snugly around his cock demands a moment's hesitation lest this be over before it starts. 

He takes your impatient squirming as the sign to move. Clark starts slow, pushing himself deeper while pulling out slower. Several times, he slips out entirely, sliding the length of him through your sopping pussy up to your throbbing clit. You make the sweetest noises, soft in your attempt to keep them at a respectable volume. 

"Okay?" he checks in on a particularly deep thrust. 

You nod, lip between your teeth with a look that borders pain and pleasure; but you're starting to meet his movements and he can hear the way your heart pounds—you're enjoying it as much as he is. Your muttered praises and assurances melt through his skin and flow over every inner piece of him like magma. He feels like he's welded to you, sinking further into the molten heat of your body, helpless to do anything but fuse against your skin. 

"Stretching me so good." 

"I missed you." 

"So glad you're safe." 

"God, feel so full." 

"I love you so much." 

Clark has always been an overly emotional person who feels everything in troves; in moments like these, charged with too many feelings to put words to, that intensity increases tenfold. Telling him you love him nearly does him in. He loses himself in the feel of you, in the way your body feels like safety, your voice sounds like home, and it's simultaneously too much and not enough. 

His eyes fall on the silver locket—the one you never take off, especially when he's gone, housing his wedding ring for safekeeping. A piece of him with you wherever you go. He presses a kiss over it, its metal taste amplified by the water. He looks up to find your eyes hot on his, rapt with intensity. 

A hand cups his cheek. “Don’t scare me like that again,” you demand, though the sound is breathless and he’s eager to envelop your words with his mouth, but he waits. 

"I promise," he says, and he'll spend the rest of his days trying his hardest to keep it. Though, he knows you're aware that he can't keep every one. But you love him anyway, and it feels unfair, and now he feels bad, so he's kissing you again because he adores the way it makes you cling to him that much harder. 

When he retracts, there's a floaty look across your features as you tremble in his arms, hips canting to match his rhythm. Clark pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, your noses brushing as he guides your dreamy eyes to his. "You okay?" 

You let out a breathless moan as you nod, beautiful eyes searching his. "Feels so good," you say, silken and full of yearning. 

He presses kisses onto your shoulder. "Feels good for me too, sweetheart." 

Clark cradles the crease of your knee, shifting you higher and opening you wider. The angle changes, and you both groan at the subtle, intense difference. The open-mouthed kiss you share is messy, slow, and uncaring as you breathe into each other's mouths. Everything about it is sensual and close and perfect, exactly what his weary soul had longed for. 

Naturally, the pace increases as the tension steadily begins to build. He can feel your hard nipples scraping across his chest, the slip and slide of your bodies amplified by the falling water. He reads the focus on your face and can tell you're trying desperately to get there, to meet him in the middle. So of course, he has to help you along, because he exists for the sole purpose of your satisfaction. His own release is nearly inconsequential, a happy byproduct. 

Two thick fingers settle just where you meet, and he stimulates the nerves all around your quivering cunt as he moves, feeling the way his cock breaches you on every thrust. Up, down, up, down in sloppy lines that trace the lips of your labia. 

Clark watches your jaw fall and anticipates the sound that follows, quickly using his free hand to stifle it. 

"Shhh, honey. Not too loud." 

It seems that only invigorates your pleasure. Those beautiful eyes of yours roll into your skull. Clark takes the chance to be a little mean, as penance for your earlier goading him into skipping foreplay. His fingers settle at the apex of your thighs, and you jolt against the firm wall of his chest when he begins to circle your clit. 

You're moaning becomes unbidden, barely muffled by his hand as he increases the staccato movement of his hips. One of your own hands roots in his soaked hair, the other splayed across his ribcage as you drool into his palm, everything a mix of sweat and water and spit. 

You look blissed-out and beautiful. 

"I missed you," he breathes. "You're so pretty. I missed you so, so much. My sweet girl, my sunshine. You're everything t'me, did you know that?" He thinks that drawn out moan might be a yes. "M'nothing without you. I love you so—ah—so much. Yeah, I know, baby. It feels so good, doesn't it?" 

He lets his hand fall in favor of anchoring himself to your hips. 

"F-fuck, Clark—" 

He's begun to suspect that you've uncovered his dirty little secret—that hearing you curse drives him wild. He didn't typically enjoy profanities, but hearing them slip from your sweet little mouth entirely on accident, entirely because of him—well, that was a completely different situation. 

His hips snap forward and it yanks another expletive from your lips. 

"Gettin' close, honey?" 

Your nod smushes your nose across his face. "Clark…"

"C'mon," he pants into your ear. "Let go. Let it happen, baby. Oh, I missed you so much—"

The telltale quaking of your thighs alerts him that you're nearly there. Clark is suddenly overcome with his desperation to feel it, fully ignoring the tingling that's settled at the base of his spine, the weight in his balls, the taut feeling spreading through his abdomen. His fingers rock over your clit, frantic but precise, just the right amount of pressure. 

Your whines have increased in volume, and distantly Clark prays that his parents are actually outside, because there's no way they can't hear your sharp cries as your nails burrow into his skin, longing to leave marks that'll heal faster than they harm. 

He begs you again, your name tumbling out of his pleading mouth as he urges you to cum for him, and that does it. Your release is tense, the shock of your overwhelmed nervous system escaping your body in several jerks. It's too much to feel you clamping around him, and his control snaps like a rubber band. Before he knows it he's fucking you through your release, chasing his impending high. 

"Oh, baby," his voice shakes as it fans across your cheek, humid against your shower-soaked face. "You're gonna make me cum." 

"Please," you weep. "Clark, please, inside me, need t'feel it, please cum in me, baby." 

And finally, the next full-body shudder that wrecks his body is pleasant instead of painful. He whimpers like it hurts, but it's the furthest thing from pain and the closest thing to heaven. He burrows his head into your neck, body slumping forwards as he pumps his hips into you, feeling his warmth seep deep inside your fluttering cunt. Your hands run down his back, up his sides, down his chest, up his arms. You pull his face out of hiding, ushering his mouth back to yours with languid movements of your lips on his. 

"I love you," he says into the kiss, wet and messy, water and spit mixing in your mouths. 

"Love you too," you shudder. 

For reasons beyond his comprehension, Clark feels his eyes fill with tears. For a moment, he hopes the guise of the shower might keep you from noticing, but of course it doesn't. 

"Hey." Your warm hands spread across his face, thumbs tracing his cheek bones. "What is it?" 

His voice breaks. "I'm just…I'm sorry. Sometimes it feels like I don't deserve you." 

"Clark." Your voice isn't pitiful. It isn't bothered. It's overflowing with tenderness, and the kind of understanding that only comes with knowing a person better than you know yourself. "I wish you could believe me when I tell you that you're one of the best people I know. But even if you can't, at least trust in how much I love you." 

A tear falls, and it's is the one droplet of moisture among many that you choose to swipe away with your fingers. 

"I love you, do you hear me?" you repeat. "I'll be here for you, always." 

He nods, and there's a cracked feeling in his chest that he can't decide is good or bad. Maybe it's a mix of both—maybe it's the rawness of vulnerability, or the type of sensitivity that comes with being this known. 

You hold him for several more moments, the rain-sound of the water hitting the tub lulling him into a state of tranquility. 

"We should…probably actually bathe," you mumble eventually. 

He gives you a loving smile, pecking each corner of your lips before kissing you fully, because he can. Because he wants to cherish it. 

"Thank you," he says one final time. "For loving me. For giving me a chance." 

You press a kiss onto his lips as you reach for the shampoo. "Always."

when clark came home from a tiring mission you were on the balcony, unprepared for the way he spent no time bending you over, muttering something about how he needed to let off steam if you didn't mind. of course you didn't, you'd been waiting for him all day. 

he was pleasantly surprised to see how you were already wet when he’d pull down your shorts, he let you know just how much he liked it by leaning over so your back was flush with his chest as his arms snaked around so his middle finger could rub at your clit.

he’s cooing praises in your ear, telling you just how much he missed you as he pushes his cock into your pussy without warning. “oh- so tight” his whimpers are warm against your back. you’re lucky you're on the top floor because if anyone heard you, they’d think you're getting murdered with the way you're moaning. 

clark’s not much quieter behind you, his moans just as pornographic as yours at his hips snap against yours. he’s not even trying to hide how much he’s wanted this. he’s looking down at your ass, admiring the way it ripples with each of his trusts, the way he can see himself disappearing into you. clark’s a sucker for this position especially when he’s as desperate as he is right now.

“oh honey- that's it- you feel so good” he’s words are strung together and whiny, both of his hands at your hip as he pulls you back into his thrusts. he told himself he waited long enough he could wait some more, at least until you’ve cum, but the knot in his stomach, the view of the city as he fucked into your pretty pussy? he was done for.

each and every one of his thrusts and the way he’s whining makes you clench around him only pulling another praise from his lips. “doing such a good job baby, goddamn” clark wasn’t the type of man to curse, if that was even considered a curse, but if there was one thing that would pull one out of him it would be you.

“ah- clark i’m gonna cum, please” he smirks at your words, his fingers pressing harder on your clit like he knows you like, thrusts sharp and quick as your orgasm rushes through you, it's so intense the only thing to leave your mouth is choked sobs and slurs of his name.

your knees are ready to buckle if you continued much longer. luckily for you, your broken moans are what send clark over the edge. his thrusts are sloppy as he fucks his cum into you, leaning down to bite on your shoulder tenderly. you're both breathing heavy, the wind ringing in your ears. “we should take this inside, i’d hate for my neighbors to know how good you make me feel” you laugh, raising a hand to toy with clark’s curls as he laughs into your shoulder blade.

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You knew you needed to stay quiet. The walls of this motel were extra thin, and you took note of that when you could easily hear your coworkers talking next door. But it was beyond hard to keep your mouth shut, especially when your legs were being pressed against your chest as Scott drilled into you, the fat tip of his cock kissed that spongy part deep inside you. He was so deep, almost too deep. His snapped hip against you so hard it hurt.

You scream out ”Scott! That’s too—“ before his hand quickly clamps over your puffy lips. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispered, through his panting. “You want them to hear us, don’t you?” You shook your head no, a tear pricking at the corner of your already glossy eyes.

“You sure? ‘cause the way you’re screaming—s-shit—makes me think otherwise,” you whine to the palm of his hand, digging your sock-covered heels in his back. The bed creaked so much you thought it would fall apart. His hip slammed against you again, partially brushing your clenching walls. “You want them to hear me ruin you…” You shook your head again, a tear now dripping down your temple into the pillow.

He slowly pulled his hand from your lips and said, “Now let’s try this again. Keep your mouth shut.” Your apology was broken and shaky. Your attempt to use your own hand to silence your moans was cut short as he grabbed a handful of your wrist in one hand, holding them tightly above your head. The soft kiss pressed on the corner of his mouth didn’t match the brutal pace he was fucking you at.

“S-scott, please, please just let me—“ you begged. You knew you were going to think back at this moment and be so embarrassed with yourself. Pleading, gasping, quivering—it was pathetic. “No, baby. That’s cheating.” The smile on his lips was evil. His thrust sped up and his empty hand went down to harshly rub your clit. It was all too much for you to handle. Your eyelids fly shut and you feel your orgasm rip through you violently, head thrown back and biting your lip so hard it draws blood.

“Mhm…that’s it—“ he grunted. His hips stuttered as he felt his climax hit. The long ropes of his cum shot deep inside you, filling you up with his warm seed. The side of your thigh vibrated as he muffled his moans—now he was cheating. As he went soft inside you, you whined as he slowly pulled out. He spread your legs to see his cum ooze out of you. You whined as he dragged a finger down your cum coated slit and fingered it back into your cunt. “Squeeze it out for me, sweetheart.”

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