dr. ryland grace, who starts with music that he liked to listen to when he was younger. he's always been a dolly parton fan for some reason. not only is 9 to 5 at the top of the list, but he'll play it every time he plays music. the kids don't even get sick of it. especially when he dances to it when he thinks they're not looking. (they're definitely looking, but they love him too much to make fun of him)

dr. ryland grace, who focuses on a soft feel for his classroom playlist. lots of soft soul hits, because who doesn't love stevie wonder, or aretha franklin, or otis redding? the kids have to be introduced to incredible music somehow, and he's here to provide. he picks those songs specifically for their tendency to leave you feeling good because he never wants a student to feel bad when they leave his class.

dr. ryland grace, who also adds lots of hozier songs to that playlist even though they're sad sometimes; he's just in it for the soft, beautiful feel of the music. he puts abstract (psychopomp) in the playlist then takes it out when he ends up getting teary eyed in class after the first chorus hits him just a little too hard after a hard day.

dr. ryland grace, who was a bit of a burnout for his undergrad degree in college. he'll bring that secret to his grave before he ever tells his kids that, but he's proud of his music taste because of it. his kids will end up hearing college-burnout-grace in some of the songs he slips into that playlist. champagne supernova by oasis. hey, hey, what can i do by led zeppelin. fade into you by mazzy star. iris by the goo goo dolls. lovefool by the cardigans.

dr. ryland grace, who is still a teacher despite having a pretty good music taste. that leads to a few corny additions to his playlist. songs that only your parents listen to. songs that you'd never want anyone to know you listen to and yet he proudly broadcasts that he loves. can you call it a guilty pleasure if you're happy to put it out there? he ends up getting his kids hooked on old hits like uptown girl, and footloose, and kokomo, and keep it comin' love, and even islands in the stream.

dr. ryland grace, who ends up the star teacher of parent-teacher conference because all of his kids tell their parents about the music their dorky (affectionate) science teacher plays in his class while they're doing their work. he ends up getting a lot of praise for introducing their kids to the jackson 5.

dr. ryland grace, who ends up adding i'm just ken to his playlist as an inside joke for his classes. his kids always tell him he looks like ken. he doesn't see it, but it makes them light up when he plays it for the first time and he somehow knows all the words to it.

dr. ryland grace, who gets teary eyed (again) with pride when his kids suggest new songs that he hasn't played in class, but are definitely in the same vein as his playlist. that means they're going home and listening to more music - but it also means they're doing research, in the very loosest sense of the word.

dr. ryland grace, who gives his kids a link to that playlist at the end of the school year. it's a perfect send off for them as they go off to their next grade. something to remember him by. something to hopefully continue improving their music taste with. something that makes him teary eyed (again) when they get so excited that he's finally shared it. something that reminds him that he really does love his job no matter how hard it can be.

taglist: @clarkscolumn @clarknsun @thceseus @sparklingsin

So, on the evening of his 28th day being gone, your nerves are fried within your skin. Completely frayed and undone. Completely destroyed. Mirroring your heart, in a way. 

“He will return, dear. Pay no mind to the number of days he’s been gone,” your mother says after she kisses your temple. She’s been sitting next to you on your bed, arm around your shoulders, comforting you through every silent fallen tear and soft mutter about how much you miss him. 

“It has never been this long,” you whisper. She presses her lips into a thin line and tightens her grip on you. When you were a child and you were this upset, she would pull you into her lap and cradle you for as long as you needed the comfort. Sometimes—especially on a night like tonight—you wish you were still small enough for it. 

“I’m starting to fear the worst.” 

There’s a whimpered little cry that accompanies your confession. It’s almost as if that cry was trying to fight that sentence from leaving you, trying to fight an unintended manifestation of your worst nightmare. All your mother does is chuckle at you and give you a soft squeeze. 

“That boy cannot stay away from you. No matter how hard the gods try to keep him at bay, he will return.” 

You push out a weak little laugh. Your hands find their way to your face so you can wipe your tears away. 

“He is almost as stubborn as his Father,” you offhandedly mumble. Your mother hums. 

“Aren’t they all?” 

With another kiss, this time pressed to the top of your head, she pulls away from you and stands up from your bed. She pats your shoulder and says, “Sleep. You’ll fall ill if you keep worrying over him like this.”

You send her a smile. It’s hardly there. A subtle lift of the corners of your lips. When she’s on her way out of your room, you exchange a set of whispered “I love you”s before everything around you falls silent. Your mother has a beautiful way of silencing your worried thoughts. Now that she’s gone, they’ve returned in full swing. 

How long has he been dead? Did it happen quickly? Did his Father willingly let him walk into death? Had he been prepared for it? Is that why he almost refused to leave you this time, or why he asked you to run away with him? Did he think of you in his final moments? 

Was your name the last thing to grace his tongue before it lost its ability to speak?

Oh, that one is terrible. Selfish and cruel, as a matter of fact. You shake your head and run a hand over your face. With a sniffle and a harsh internal chastising, you scoot back onto your bed and lie down. Your eyes meet the ceiling of your home. The bland, dull white of it is boring enough to put anyone to sleep no matter their mental torment. 

Moments before sleep finally takes you, a gentle breeze brushes over the side of your face and shoots a shiver down your spine. You huff and gently push yourself up onto your elbows. You love your mother more than life itself, but her nasty habit of accidentally leaving your bedroom window open is going to kill you one day. 

When you open your eyes, you see a shape in the corner of your room. A massive, dark shape in the form of a person; your exhausted mind figures it must be some sort of specter. You gasp and lurch forward to run out of your room. The sharp inhale echoes, bouncing off the walls. 

Seconds later, Kal-El’s lunging forward to cover your mouth with one massive hand, attempting to quiet your scream before it can materialize in the first place. 

“Shh! It’s only me!” He laughs quietly to himself and shakes his head. 

“If you want me to stay, I suggest you keep your scream in.” 

You groan against his palm and smack at his broad shoulders with both of your hands. He doesn’t so much as wince, but his smile and the mischievous glint in his eye grows every time a blow lands. When he pulls his hand off of your mouth, you whisper shout, “Are you trying to frighten me to death?!” 

All he does is lean forward and kiss you as a response. You can’t help the fire burning in your cheeks and the smile growing on your lips while he does so. Reuniting with him and all of his infuriating habits always brings you the most joy you’ve ever felt. A kiss so deep, so loving, so filled with his adoration for you usually strikes all of his annoyances away.

When you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into your bed as you fall back down into it, you both laugh into the kiss. The momentary bliss doesn’t last long, though; he’s too busy pulling away from the kiss and looking down at you. 

“If that happened, I would be the first to venture down to Hades and retrieve you.” 

“Your confidence will be the end of you one day, Kal-El,” you tease. He rolls his eyes. His big, blue, beautiful eyes. They’re just as bright in the moonlight as they are in the sunlight, and yet so much more striking this close up. You allow yourself to drink him in, to reacquaint yourself with his sharp and yet soft, lovely features you could never dream of forgetting. 

“You spend your days complimenting my confidence. I’m convinced it is your job to do so,” he counters while he spreads your legs and settles between them. 

“Confidence may not have been the right word, then. Perhaps I was talking about your stubbornness.” 

That one gets him to scoff at you. 

“Do you really believe I’m as stubborn as my Father?” he asks while kneeling between your legs. It’s an excuse for him to reach up and open your curtains, to let a little more light into your room so he can see you for the first time in a month. You sit up to follow him, interrupting the way his eyes were drinking in your features beneath the blue moonlight. 

“Stop listening to my conversations!” you hiss. “And, anyway, I said you are almost as stubborn as your Father.” 

He huffs. His hands ghost over your arms, slowly dragging up to your shoulders so he can brush your hair off of them. When his warm, calloused palms cradle your cheeks, you soften. Your nerves stitch themselves back together. The aches and pains in your heart dissipate. For the first time in a month, everything feels right. This is where you’re meant to be. This is who you’re meant to be worshipped by. 

You couldn’t possibly be angry with him. Not when he’s returned to you, as he promised he would.

“I missed you.” 

When tears started pooling in your eyes, you’re not sure. But they’re there, and as they slip down your cheeks with those three little words, Kal-El thumbs them away. 

“Words cannot describe how much I missed you. The only thing preventing me from losing my head was knowing each one of my steps brought me closer to you,” he coos in return. He leans down to connect your lips, but only for a moment. When he breaks the kiss again, you fear you’ll go insane. Your hands find their way to his breastplate. Usually, you beg him to rid his body of it. Of any clothing, really. 

But you’re so happy that he’s back here, that he’s finally with you again, that you’d let him keep it on forever if he so pleased. 

“You were away for far too long,” you whine. “I feared you were dead.” 

He chuckles. Shakes his head and pulls back just to look at you, just to drink you in once again. 

“Not even death itself could keep me away from you, my heart.” 

That feeling—that relief—floods your system when, for the first time in five years, he stands in front of you. There’s no smile on his face. No moonlight illuminating his eyes as he glues them to yours. No smile on his lips and no promise that you’ll get to kiss them within only a few seconds. Just a solemn, darkened look in his eyes, and a scowl you’ve never seen before, and a harsh, hardened mask that you’re struggling to read. 

This is still the same Kal-El you grew up with. His face has not changed much. His eyes are still bluer than the sky, and his full lips would probably feel the same on your skin, and his broad shoulders are as commanding as ever. 

And yet he is much different. 

Despite that, your relief and elation persist. They worm their way through your skin, your muscles, your bones. Warm your cheeks and steal your breath from your chest. You’d almost forgotten how to breathe until your body forced you to suck in some of the already electrified air between you two. 

Your voice finds its way back to you when you rasp, “What are you doing here?”

Incredible. The first time you see him in five years, and that’s what your cursed brain and vocal chords spit out. 

Kal-El stays planted in his spot, unflinchingly rigid. Stuck in it, standing just a few steps away from your door, hands twitching at his sides while he continuously balls them into fists and releases them. The rough heave of his chest is visible even in your widened distance. Each rise and fall of it sees the shadows of all the slashes on his worse-for-wear breastplate shifting and growing. 

“Is it too late to receive a prophecy?” he gruffly asks. His voice brings you comfort despite sounding angrier and deeper than it once was. Your head aches, light from your ritualistic fasting and from the dark, low timbre rising from his throat, crossing the distance between you, and floating into your ears. 

You clear your own throat. Swallow once, then twice, just to get the lump out of it enough to reply to him. Steady your knees so that collapsing isn’t an option, so that he won’t be able to run over and save you from cracking your head open on the shaky floor beneath your feet. 

He doesn’t deserve to save you after this long, right?

“The ritual is over, and—and I know you can speak to your Father without my help.” 

He nods. It was more of a bowing of his head. His eyes remain on you. You aren’t sure what he’s about to say, but you know for a fact that you aren’t scared of it. 

Nothing can be worse than the five year silence you’ve endured from him. 

“May I speak to you, then?” 

“Are you not speaking to me now?” you return. A barbed, rough thing that you unintentionally threw his way. It gets his stone-set frown to twitch, the corners of his mouth to tick upward for a split second. Maybe the Kal-El you remember is still in there somewhere. 

“Well played. I missed your quick wit,” he mumbles. He looks down at the floor between you. At the few feet of distance that feel like miles. When he lifts his eyes to meet yours, they shoot a shiver down your spine that only he could conjure. 

He takes one step forward. 

You take one step back. 

“I have a question for you.” 

His voice is still deep, but it’s a little hesitant, now. Not as confident. That backward step of yours must have knocked some of his confidence you love so much away.

“What manner of question?” you inquire. As your chest heaves and your voice trembles, you can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing and hearing that. If he’s sensing your nervousness. If he’s picking up on the adrenaline and exhaustion coursing through your veins. If he still knows you as well as you know him.

“Personal,” he answers. Straightforward and honest. Not as playful as he once was, but still just as curious. 

You press your lips into a thin line. How dare he? 

“You—” you cut yourself off with a scoff and shake your head. After letting out a harsh little pointed laugh, you ball your fists up at your sides and continue. 

“You are out of your mind. You resurface after five years of the darkest, most vindictive silence, and you believe you still have the right to my personal life?”

“I did not believe asking the Oracle a question would cause so much strife. Is it not your life’s calling to answer them?”

“Asking the Oracle a personal question is causing the strife. You should have been here if you were interested in my life.”

He laughs at your venom; venom you feel bad about throwing at him, but venom he’s earned, if you were being honest. You haven’t heard his laugh in what feels like an eternity. It’s a sound that threatens to knock the breath right out of your chest and have you barreling toward him. A sound that might make you throw away all of your hesitations about accepting his apology—if it ever comes. 

“A general question, then?” 

You roll your eyes.

“Very well,” you mumble. Your left hand waves him on while you walk over to your bed. Tries to yank the question out of him just to get it over with. Kal-El shifts on his feet—stumbles just a bit—before he stills and plants himself across your room from you once again. 

He misinterpreted your wave. You weren’t calling him over to your bed, despite the fact that you very much want to. With a gentle clearing of his throat and a soft whisper of your name, he pushes out the question that he mentioned:

“Will you ever trust me again?” 

It hangs in the thick air between you. You answer him first, silently, with a few quick blinks and a rough glare. But your words, angry and hurt, find their way out of your mouth soon after.

“That was your general question?” you viciously quip. “I see that these last five years have turned you into a liar.”

You gnaw on your bottom lip for a moment. Suck in a deep breath before you release it and clench your jaw. You weren’t supposed to get this angry, but how could you have stayed calm? 

“No. I don’t believe I can trust you anymore.” 

His face twitches; a reaction you’ve only seen once before, when you told him what your future held for you and your relationship. He’s taken aback. Shocked. Betrayed. 

How ironic.

He mutters your name once more, a little louder than last time, then says, “I am the same man you once knew.” 

You hold a hand up to silence him when he attempts to continue speaking. It works instantly. He heels like an obedient dog. Despite the fact that your head nearly started spinning from hearing his tongue form your name twice in less than a minute, you push forward.

“You could not possibly be the same man I once knew, because he would not have left me for five years without so much as a single uttered word. My Kal-El would not have done that.” 

You pull your sheets back and sit down on your bed. It’s easier to turn your back to him when you say this, but your head tilts to the left just a bit. Just enough to keep him in your peripheral. 

Your voice returns. Soft. Hesitant. Weak.

“This is the equivalent of a stranger breaking into my bedroom. You may have my Kal-El’s face, but you don’t have his heart.” 

Your head falls at the same time that his does. While you’re too busy looking at the fabric of your dress, fingers picking at the soft weave of it and eyes stinging with bitter, confused tears, you hear him shuffling. Usually steady hands fumbling with something while his footsteps slowly march toward you. What a rare gift it is to hear the footsteps of someone who usually moves in silence. 

What a gift it is to hear him at all. 

When he rounds your bed and enters your view again by standing just in front of you, you can feel his warmth before you see him. Although you refuse to raise your head and meet his eyes, you’re still surrounded by him. Inescapable in body and in mind, apparently. 

But the avoidance of eye contact doesn’t last long, because he reaches down to cradle your jaw and tilt your head up. A shiver runs down your spine, followed by a shockwave through all your nerve endings. The first time he’s touched you in nearly an eternity, and his calloused hands are still as soft in their handling of you as they always were.

His thumb runs over your bottom lip. A soft touch that distracts you from the fact that he’s no longer wearing his breastplate, that his top half is completely bare. That explains all the shuffling you heard behind you. It also explains the heartbeat blooming between your thighs as your eyes not-so-subtly rake over the body you’ve longed for. 

The candlelight you’ve yet to extinguish is falling on him as any light does. Cascading over his skin before seemingly sinking into it. You’d never know he had been through years of battles where he’d almost gotten his life taken from him judging by the innate perfection of his body. No scars. No bruising. No bleeding wounds. 

Simply golden, glowing, and perfect. The pure perfection of a god’s favored child. 

He calls your name again and you force your eyes away from his body. 

“I don’t have his heart?” he softly asks. Then, he kneels in front of you. Now that his face is mere inches from yours, he releases your chin. His eyes flicker from your gaze to your lips. Back and forth. Slow, gentle flits in which his eyelashes are speaking louder than his words. Communicating all of his desires within one simple repetitive motion.

Your breathing hitches in your throat as you feel his fingers slowly, softly curling around your right wrist. His heat is almost unbearable. A once comforting feature of the person you were entangled with now twisted and contorted into a hateful reminder of the past. It radiates off of him and bleeds into your skin, threatening to scorch it beyond repair.

And yet you find yourself leaning into him, almost as though your bodies are magnetic. As if his being is supposed to merge with yours. As if the only way to complete that merge is to press yourself into and against him for all of eternity. 

“You recognize his heart, don’t you?” he questions. He raises one brow as he finally peers directly into your eyes. 

“Would you know it if you felt it?”

When did his face close in on yours enough to feel his breath fanning out over your skin?

You don’t respond with words; just a simple nod of your head. You’re too busy staring into his eyes and trying to control your own breathing, trying to prevent passing out. They’re still bluer than the sky but hiding something deep within them that you can’t place. A secret, probably. He likely has millions of them now.  

He lifts your hand and presses it against his chest, right over the racing heart within his ribcage. The rough, quick, recognizable thump of it makes you whimper. It gets quicker and harder when you whisper his name and shake your head. You want to tear your hand away, want to pull off of his chest and send him away. 

“Is this not the heart you know?” 

A tear slips down your cheek. His other hand immediately rises to your face, cradles it, and thumbs that tear away. Your brain and tongue want to decline him. 

Your heart has other plans.

“Yes,” you admit through a sob. “Yes, it is.” 

He smiles. His heart races beneath your fingers once again. The creases at the corners of his eyes are deeper than you remember, but the brightness within his irises and the beam of his smile are the same. All of it is just as heartbreakingly beautiful as you remember, and although it should feel good, it hurts. 

Just as he’s sliding his hand down from your cheek to your neck and bracing his thumb against your jaw, you shake your head and back away from and push off of him. Skitter backwards and deeper into your bed. 

“You should not be touching me,” you regretfully mumble through the lump in your throat. More regretful words follow a soft hiccup and the frantic wiping away of your tears with the back of your hands. 

“And I should not be touching you. You know as well as I do that this is not permitted.” 

“But—”

“No,” you aggressively cut him off while leaning back on your elbows. Your glare is harsh. Unforgiving, in a way; something you force upon yourself just so that you can make the inevitable of having to turn him away easier on you.

“Why did you come here in the first place?”

He pushes himself up from the floor to kneel on your bed. His knees press into the mattress, tucked between your legs while his hands gently caress them. The feeling of his palms is something you know all too well. All heavy and hot and familiar against your ankles, slowly sliding up your calves before he grips your knees. Before his fingers brush against the bottom hem of your dress. 

Soon enough, his hands fly up to your hips so he can keep you from running any further. 

“Is it not acceptable for me to see you? Is my potential visitation not the reason you chose this very temple to dedicate yourself to?” he aggressively responds. 

You try to push his hands off of you and open your mouth to chastise him for touching you again, but you don’t get far. His grip tightens until it’s almost bruising your hips. You should hate the way it feels. Why don’t you hate the way it feels?

And then someone standing in your still-open doorway speaks, instead. 

The women in the temple fawn over Kal-El unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. It almost makes you regret bringing him to the gathering room in the middle of it instead of stowing him away in your bedroom, but you had no choice. The idiot had left your door open and, as a priestess was walking by in the middle of the night, she happened to see him in your room.

It cut the conversation you were having—and his desperate, topless groveling—short just before he could dive into you.

Now, you’re dealing with a group of priestesses being diminished to a bunch of jittery, lovesick school-girls. Feeding him praises, asking him questions, fawning over everything he does and every gift he displays. 

The worst part of it all? Kal-El seems to love it.

“How strong are you, Kal-El? Is there no limit to what you can lift?” 

“May we see another one of your gifts?”

“Can you really dash across the city in the blink of an eye?”

“Have you always been so handsome?”

That last one has you scoffing. Has you crossing your arms over your chest and smirking to yourself as you fall to the back of the crowd of priestesses. That ought to do a lot for his ego. Or, his confidence, as he refers to it. 

They don’t know that it took him years to grow into his ears. That he wasn’t always so muscular, that he once favored a twig instead of the tree trunk that very same twig fell from. That he used to hide his eyes in conversation by gluing them to the floor because he was too scared to speak to others. That he used to be so shy you thought you’d never hear his voice.

That you loved him despite all of that, and that you still love him.

He’s the complete opposite, now. He looks at all of them and speaks to each person directly. He winks at them. He asks them questions to get to know them a little better, and he acts like he’s surprised at everything they show him within the temple. 

The only thing that’s the same is the way he still loves you.

You let them encircle the man you still love, too. They can have their fun. 

Because, no matter how much they demand his attention, you notice him staring at you. Taking any chance he can get to look at you, to ensure you’re still there, that you’re still looking at him. It’s subtle; the only time he’s ever been subtle in his adult life, perhaps. 

“Does your Father speak to you about us?” one of the newer priestesses asks. You roll your eyes. What a stupid question. There’s a decent possibility that his Father doesn’t even exist, at this point. If that’s the case, you have a few questions to ask him about who was sending him on those tasks so many years ago.

“Oh,” Kal-El mutters through what you know as an awkward laugh, but what they’ll think is a charming, relaxed one. “Of course. He is aware of your dedication and incredibly appreciative of it.”

You cock one eyebrow up. Kal-El’s eyes meet yours as he’s scanning through the crowd. It’s almost as if he can see through them. 

“Liar,” you mouth. 

He winks at you, this time. 

“What brings you to Delphi, Kal-El?” another girl asks. He keeps his eyes on you, although it’s clear that he heard the girl. She’s looking up at him with all the love in the world, and yet all he can do is stare at you. 

“Just visiting an old friend,” he answers without hesitation. It’s annoying how the corners of your lips tick upwards at the sound of it. Some of the girls start barking their questions to him, but they bounce right off of him. 

“An old friend? Are you not visiting for your Father, instead?” you ask above all the voices. He smiles at you. 

“A little of this, a little of that.” His response is nonchalant. Playful. Enough to make your temper from earlier dissipate the tiniest bit. Your brow ticks up in amusement, as do the corners of your lips. 

Another girl steals his attention. 

You turn on your heel and retreat to your room. Sometimes, his light is too much to bear.

When your feet brush over your bedroom’s cold, stony floor, you get rewarded with a shiver shooting up and down your spine. The chill of it is something you never get used to, especially when all you’re accustomed to is warmth. Warmth from the sun. Warmth from Kal-El. 

You sigh as you look down at the altar to Apollo pressed against the foot of your bed.

“Your son will be the death of me and of the girls. Best you collect him now and send him off on a task if you want priestesses here come Spring,” you mutter to a god who isn’t listening. To a god who doesn’t exist, for all you know. 

You round the altar to get to your bed, but the sound of your door opening and shutting makes you punch out an embarrassing little fearful squeak and spin on your heel to see who’s there. You should have known who it’d be. Even though you’d like to delay the inevitable, he barrels into it head first. Of course he does.

Kal-El mutters a soft apology for frightening you, then starts toward your bed. Toward you. When you back away—just like you did earlier—he stops in his tracks.

“Your priestesses seem to like me.”

“They don’t get to meet a half-blood every day. Especially not one descending from their god,” you confess. 

Their god. Not yours.

You don’t want to look up at your god, so you focus on your bed instead. On the feeling of the soft linen beneath your fingertips. The more you look at him, the less likely you’ll be to send him away like you know you must do. 

He hums. Shoots you a smile that you’ve dreamt of seeing for eons. One you can feel even though you’re not looking directly at it. 

“I remember when you once treated me as they do. As though I was exciting to you.” 

You roll your eyes. Couldn’t fight back your own little smirk if you tried, but at least you can keep yourself from looking at him. From falling into him like you desperately want to. 

“Don’t fool yourself. You lost your beautiful, half-blooded luster to me the very first day we met. Do you remember that? When I greeted you and you ran behind your mother?”

“I thought we agreed we would never speak of that!” he tosses back at you. You laugh to yourself.

With a soft clearing of your throat and a few gentle blinks to rid yourself of your suddenly stinging tears, you reply, “Maybe, but…I think of that shy little boy more often than not.”

He says nothing. When you glance at him out of the corner of your eye, you can see the pink dusting over his cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight you’ve yet to snuff out. Kal-El shifts a bit. Shifts as though he’s uncomfortable in his own skin. You choose to continue for him. 

“We agreed on a lot of things that neither of us have upheld, anyway. You have broken your promises, and I have broken mine. That’s just…” 

You pause to let out a sigh. You wave your hand. You finally look at him, and he looks just as broken as you feel. Shoulders slumped. Lips set in a frown. Hands twitching at his sides, balling up then releasing. You’re not happy with the amount of times you’ve seen that in one night.

“I don’t know. Life, perhaps. The horrid whirlwind of life. Of our life.”

Things fall silent for a while as he contemplates his own response—if you can call a maximum of 10 seconds “a while.” He’s always been more of a doer than a thinker. 

“Our life?” 

His voice is quiet, but the look in his eyes is loud. Accusatory. Maybe a little hateful. You’re not accustomed to seeing rage in his eyes—especially not rage being directed at you. But you’ve been here once before. You know what it looks like.

Your face flushes with an unbearable heat. Sharp, prickling, embarrassed tears start welling in the corners of your eyes. Your chest caves in on itself and you let go of your sheets in order to take a single step closer to him.

“No, you misunderstood, I simply meant—”

Your attempt at deflecting falls on deaf ears because he interrupts you. Should have expected that. You said what you said, and his penchant for being headstrong will take it and run with it.

“Do you ever think about what our life would have been like had you not chosen this?” 

You frown, and your rebuttal dies in your throat. The tears that had been pooling in your eyes grow larger and larger until they finally slip down your cheeks. With a trembling bottom lip and a refusal to look at him anymore, you shrug your shoulders.

“No,” you eventually, half-heartedly whisper. A lie that floats over to him and pisses him off. 

“You left me, Kal-El. I stopped thinking about you some time within your five years of silence.” 

That pisses him off more. 

“Your heart has been hammering within your chest from the moment you saw me. Tell me again that you have stopped thinking of me without your heart betraying your tongue,” he seethes. You grumble a few curses beneath your breath. After you ball up your fists at your sides and glare at him, he sends you a glare of his own to match.  

Maybe it’s your subconscious that forces you to close in on him. Some unspoken desire that causes you to storm up to him and give him a rough push on the front of his breastplate. It’s disheartening how all of your strength barely makes him move an inch.

“Perhaps my heart has given me away, but it races when it sees you because I’m reminiscing about the man you once were! The one who never would have left me even though we could not be together!” 

He shakes his head and his face falls. He says nothing, but you can see his jaw ticking over and over again as though he’s chewing on the words he wants to say to you. Why he’s holding them back, you’re not sure—but you don’t give him a chance to expel them, anyway.

“You gave up on us! I made my choice because I still wanted you to be in my life! You ran away like a coward! Like an imposter of your own title!” you shout. 

Every few words are punctuated with rough punches against his chest. Your hands ache, knuckles bruising and breaking open from each repeated impact on his battle-worn breastplate. Hitting him feels like punching a stone wall. 

Worth it.

You pull back once your hands are numb. Your face and knuckles are soaking wet; with tears, with blood, with your steadily bubbling hatred for the man you’ve loved your entire life. As you pace around in front of the altar at the foot of your bed, you berate him more:

“Why do you claim to be a hero? You didn’t save me! You abandoned me when you always promised me you never would! You were the only person I could count on, the only god I believed in, and you left me!”

 It’s as though a dam has broken. You’ve kept these thoughts in for far too long. Lived with them. Let them rot your heart and soul. If he’s here visiting an old friend, doesn’t he deserve an update on how she’s been feeling?

Kal-El punches out a loud, angry groan and closes the distance between you two within the blink of an eye. He covers your mouth with one large palm and wraps his other arm around your waist, something that forcibly stops your frantic movements as you try to wriggle out of his tight, unforgiving hold. 

Any other day, you’d be grateful to have him on you in such a way. But when he’s got you this close, when he’s this angry, and when you can feel the edge of his Father’s altar digging into the back of your thighs and the heat of his body bleeding into yours, you’re not as welcoming to it. 

“I did not abandon you by choice! It was forced upon me!” he booms. 

You still to process his words while you try to rid yourself of the fear of being yelled at by someone stronger than any living being in the world. His palm stays glued to your mouth. Your hands fly up to his exposed biceps. 

He lowers his volume, but he’s still irate when he says, “This abandonment was my attempt at saving you.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. All you can do is blink up at him. To rid yourself of your tears, to clear your line of sight and ensure that this is actually happening. That he’s this close. That you’re not imagining this. That he just said what he said. 

When he reopens his eyes, you have no choice but to look into them. Where else would you look, anyway? Nothing is as appealing as his eyes.

“I know how utterly relentless my Father is to His Oracle,” Kal-El confesses. The low vibration of his voice bleeds through his chest and into yours. Is it wrong that it’s stoking a fire deep in your belly?

“He would have ruined you. These rituals would have driven you mad. He would have used you as a beacon for His voice and torn your body and mind to shreds, and He wanted to tear you apart. He wanted to destroy you.” 

You tense in his arms. Your blood runs cold despite his heat bleeding into you while he holds you like you’ll shatter and disappear if he lets you go. How on Earth are you supposed to go forward with a revelation like that? 

Kal-El smiles at your suddenly widened, worried eyes. It’s weak. A gentle lift of the corners of his lips, one corner going a bit higher than the other like it always does. You see this crooked smile every time you close your eyes. What a blessing it is to see it in person once again.

“You were the only thing that could take me away from Him. Don’t you remember that?”

He sighs, a deep, heavy thing that he expels from his nose. His palm slides off of your mouth so he can cradle your cheek instead. So his thumb can slowly glide back and forth over the soft apple of your cheek and swipe away your tears. As his fingers curl around your jaw and his other hand tightens around your waist again, he mutters, “I obviously couldn’t let Him get His hands on you. He knew I wouldn’t stand for it.” 

“What did you do?” you whisper. A sad—but relieved—little question that you push out from the depths of your chest. At least he stood up for you, right?

“I made a deal with Him,” he answers. His hand falls from your cheek to his own bicep where your hand lies. As your fingers interlock and he gives your hand a squeeze, your heart swells within your chest. This is what your body is made for: Being pressed against and intertwined with Kal-El’s. 

“My silence for His.” 

The confused knitting of your brow makes him laugh to himself. He pauses. Swallows so thickly, so roughly, that you can hear it. 

“He would not acknowledge you as long as I stayed away from you. As long as I continued to do His bidding.”

All of the air leaves your chest in a pathetic, shaky sigh. The truth would have been easier for you to handle if he had simply said he was angry with you for leaving him. The silence, both from Father and son, would have been easier to digest if that was the case.

Instead, you have a man still in love with you and yet barred from being with you, and a god who hates you. 

Poetic.

You finally tear your eyes off of his by leaning forward and pressing your forehead against his left shoulder. It hurts to look at him. It hurts to be close to him, but it hurt even more when he was away. Seems like no matter what happens tonight, you’ll wake up in pain in the morning.

His hand releases yours so he can lift it up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers curling into your hair and gently pulling on it. It’s a soft maneuver; one that earns him a quick glance into your eyes again. You whine. Whether it was from need or exhaustion, you aren’t sure. It might have been both. 

Then, he descends. Presses his forehead against yours, brushes his nose against yours, lets his lips ghost over yours in a way that makes your knees tremble and your nails dig deeper into his biceps. 

“No,” you unconvincingly whisper while you turn your head away. “We can’t. Your Father, He…”

Kal-El ignores your little plea. Ignores his Father, too, when he presses a soft, featherlight line of kisses along your jaw. Before you know it, your body is arching into his; exhibiting a mind of its own, especially when he starts kissing down to your neck.

“He will kill us both,” you quickly mutter. Another whine accompanies your statement as soon as his tongue laves over your pulse point. He hums, ignoring your warning and slipping his hand out of your hair and toward your left hip. His other arm tightens, pulling your hips flush against his. 

“He’ll have, ah—” you cut yourself off with a moan as soon as you feel him suckling on that sensitive spot just below your ear. One he knows well. One he’s spent a lot of time mapping out. 

“Your head! He’ll have your head for defiling His Oracle!” you pathetically squeak out while your hips buck against his. Kal-El shakes that very head that his Father will likely rip off of his body. 

“I think we should let Him watch.” 

His fingers ghost over the hem of your dress where it lays at your mid thighs. He pushes you back further onto the altar belonging to his Father, lays you out on top of it, without caring about the sound of things falling off of it and clattering to the floor.

You’re both going to die. This will certainly seal your fate. 

“Kal-El,” you whisper. He looks up at you as his hands slide further and further up your thighs, fingers curling around the soft flesh of them so he can spread your legs and slot between them. His fingerprints burn into your skin all the same. How you’ve missed that burn.

“We will not survive His wrath if we do this,” you warn him while splaying out on the altar beneath you. The cool stone of it does marvels for your heated skin as it permeates through your thin dress. 

“My wish to spend eternity with you will be fulfilled, then,” Kal-El quips while he pulls back just to rid himself of his clothing. You roll your eyes, but the heat welling in your cheeks and the smile spreading on your lips is unavoidable. That sharp tongue is still the same.

His breastplate being off gives you the ability to touch his body when he returns to you and climbs atop of you on this altar and settles between your legs. You try your best not to focus on his hardened length, on how it’s flush against his stomach because of how big he is, on the way the tip of it is slowly dribbling small, soft white pearls of precum down onto your dress when he’s above you, now.

If you think about it too much, you’ll drool.

As your palms glide up from his abdomen and stomach to his chest, he works on winding your legs around his waist.  

“We can’t do this,” you whimper, nails digging into the soft, fleshy skin of his chest. When you press your hand flat against the left side of it, you find his heart racing beneath your palm.

“Tell me you want me to stop,” he purrs. “Banish me from the temple. From your body.” 

You can’t. You won’t. So you stay silent.

Before you know it, he’s leaning down to press a litany of kisses on your skin. He starts at the corner of your lips, then moves down to your chin and your jaw. Those distracting, sweet little things make it hard for you to notice one of his hands has slipped beneath your dress and is inching up to the soft apex of your inner thigh. 

Your hips raise to his intoxicating touch despite your mouth saying, “This is wrong, Kal-El.” 

He scoffs. When he pulls the thin, wispy excuse of a pair of panties you’ve got on to the side and runs two fingers through your folds, he smiles. Your body jolts but raises again, weak and dizzy and drunk off of him just from this small reuniting of your skin. 

Skin that should have never been separated.

“It seems as though your mouth does not agree with your body,” he coos.

He collects a tiny bit of your seemingly unending wetness before sliding his fingers up to your clit and simply pressing them against the sensitive bud. You squeal and arch your back into him, your clothed chest pressing against his bare one. 

Why on Earth has he not taken this dress off of you?

Maybe he can read your thoughts, because not even a second later, he takes his hand out from beneath your dress and grabs onto the neckline of it where it sits just above your breasts. It’s an illusionary soft touch, though, because within the blink of an eye, he’s ripping that dress in half in only a few rough pulls and exposing your bare upper body to him. 

You gasp in shock, but your cunt flutters around nothing and you push out a moan you didn’t even know you had in you. 

“If you are my Father’s Oracle, and I do His bidding, do I not have a right to defile this body?” he asks, dipping his head down and kissing your neck and chest. His stubble scratches over your skin, roughness that overtakes each tender kiss, and has you bucking your hips up in a desperate attempt to meet his once more. 

Then his wicked fingers return to and start circling your clit; the movement is gentle and slow, lacking any of the force you need to actually finish. You keen and shake your head, wrapping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his thick, curly hair. Those curls are much longer than they was all those years ago when you last clung onto them for dear life while he brought you to the light. 

A rough tug on them has him picking his head up and detaching his lips from your skin. He shoots you a charming little wink. Something to remind you this is the same Kal-El you’re dealing with despite his rougher, more frantic touches. 

“Although,” he lowers his head just a bit, lips brushing over the shell of your ear as he whispers, “I recall you calling me your god.” 

With a smirk on his lips and honey in his deep, tempting voice, he purrs, “So perhaps I’m taking what’s rightfully mine. That would make you my Oracle. My priestess. I’m taking what belongs to me.” 

You couldn’t stop your eyes rolling back into your head if you tried. Oh, how you’ve missed this filthy mouth and these skilled fingers. 

You tug on his hair again and punch out an embarrassingly loud moan, your hips gently chasing each circle he draws on your clit. Kal-El replaces his fingers with the pad of his thumb, continuing the circles as he slowly pushes those two fingers inside of your weeping, messy cunt. 

The sting from the stretch of his fingers forces a yelp from your throat. Your legs twitch around his waist and you attempt to squeeze your thighs together, but to no avail. He’s too broad between your legs. Too big. Too heavy. 

You try to skitter away. Try to pull back yourself back. But he’s got a tight grip on your waist with that other hand; one that keeps you still, one that squeezes your hip and pins you down beneath him.

He kisses your cheek and sets a soft, steady pace when he begins pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Kal-El pulls back to look you in the eyes. It’s hard to resist him when he’s knuckle-deep in your severely neglected cunt and cooing, “Rest your tired body. It’s been far too long since someone’s taken care of you, hasn’t it?” 

With tears pooling in your eyes and an inability to look away from him, you nod. You cling to him, tightening your arms around his neck so you can pull yourself up and press your lips against his. The kiss is frantic. Hot and heavy. Clicking teeth. Clashing tongues. Five years’ worth of anger, of hatred, of longing and lust—all coming to the surface. 

You moan when he softly bites and tugs on your bottom lip. After it snaps back into place, you giggle and try to kiss him again, but you’re too busy falling back down onto the altar and crying out in pleasure, instead. He’s started to curl his fingers deep inside of you after each soft thrust of them, brushing up against that soft spot that always makes your thighs shake and your head spin. He remembers your body almost better than you already know it.

“That’s it,” he whispers through kiss-swollen lips and a prideful smile as he gazes down at you. “Let me take care of you.” 

“You must stop,” you brokenly whimper, hips squirming and stomach tightening more and more with each swipe of his thumb over your clit and thrust of his fingers into your cunt. It’s not like you want him to stop; not when you’re this close, not when you’ve missed him for this long. But maybe if it seems like you’re protesting this, you won’t be punished as harshly. 

“Just a bit longer, my heart,” he coos. You melt immediately. Tears slip down your cheeks as you arch off of the altar pressing into your back. My heart. That affectionate name hasn’t been spoken to you in ages, and yet it still sounds exactly the same. Reverent. Sweet. Caring. You must be dreaming.

Except you very much aren’t. Kal-El’s still moving his fingers and drawing soft circles on your clit with his thumb. He’s still pressing kisses into your skin as though he’s praying into it, his lips brushing against your collarbones, his teeth marking your now exposed skin as he trails down to your breasts and eventually sucks your right nipple into his mouth.

You curse. You dig your nails into his bare shoulders and claw down the broad expanse of his back. You cry out his name. Then you come so hard that there are stars in your vision, that your body is uncontrollable beneath his, and that you’re gushing around his fingers and dripping down onto the altar beneath you. 

Kal-El pulls off of your nipple with a pop, but he continues working your clit to help you ride out your orgasm. He kisses you, then. Slow and sweet with a gentle glide of his tongue against your bottom lip. As he slips his tongue into your mouth, you slide one of your hands down his chest, abdomen, and stomach, fingers brushing against his toned body so you can reorient yourself with him. 

“Tell me who you belong to,” Kal-El whispers against your mouth when he breaks the kiss and pulls his fingers out of you. His hips buck as soon as you wrap your hand around his cock and give it a few gentle, teasing pumps. The breathy little moan he pushes into you is enough to get you to come again. 

“You know it has always been you,” you whisper back. You guide the tip of his cock to your cunt and allow him to glide it through your folds. The fleeting contact on the sensitive little bundle of nerves with each roll of his hips makes you whine and squirm, but he wraps one arm around your waist to still you and continues moving. He shudders. Then whimpers. 

“Say it again. Who do you belong to?” he gruffly commands. It’s always been cute to you when he tries to steel himself as he’s falling apart.

He punctuates that question by pushing the tip of his cock into your dripping cunt, and your breath hitches in your throat. You manage to expel it when he buries himself in you to the hilt with no resistance, but it’s only because his size knocks all of the air out of your lungs. 

“You! I belong to you!” you keen. Your head meets the altar beneath you, fully tossed back and eyes squeezed shut as he nearly splits you in half. He nods despite his face slipping down and being buried in your neck. As he pulls his hips back and slowly pushes them back in to meet yours, you cry out in some sort of mix of pleasure, pain, despair, and happiness. 

Kal-El groans, eyes lidded and chest heaving. The twitch of his cock against your walls tells you he’s already close. He was right when he said it’s been far too long.

You remember this ache, this burn, this stretch all too well. The further Kal-El dives into your cunt, the more convinced you are that he’s in your stomach. That he’s trying to become one with you judging by how deeply he’s buried in you, how his arms are tightly locked around your waist, how every inch of his skin is on yours. If your bodies could meld together, he’d have figured out how to do it by now.

“You’re all mine,” he breathes into your skin between hot, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and each moan that tumbles from his lips. He pushes himself up onto one hand so he can peer down at you. The other hand slips away from your waist so he can grab your chin and force you to look at him. You do as he wants, although it’s through lidded eyes and teary, blurred vision. 

“Denounce my Father on His own altar. Tell Him who your real god is,” Kal-El demands, voice low and deep and hateful—but not towards you. Towards the god you’re supposed to worship. Towards the Father you both have nothing but disdain for. 

What else are you supposed to do? Deny the truth?

“You’re my god,” you confess while you squirm under the intensity of his gaze. High-pitched and breathy and desperate, but it’s the full truth. Always has been. Always will be. 

“That’s right. I’m your god,” he growls, cocky and full of himself and somehow hotter than he’s ever been.

He smiles down at you. Odd to see that big, beautiful, crooked grin when he’s spewing nothing but filth out of his mouth, but that makes him all the more enticing. He rolls his hips against yours a few times. The tip of his length bumps against your cervix and has your body recoiling from the shock, but only seconds later, you belt out your loudest moan of the night.

“I love you,” Kal-El professes just as his thrusts get a little sloppy. As his hand meets your waist and his fingers leave a few dark marks on your left hip from his rough grip. As he desperately tries to hold back a whimper from the tight squeeze of your fluttering walls—and fails.

You work up just enough strength to lift your head and squeak out, “I love you.” 

A gentle repetition of his own words. 

Something that floats up to him, has him flushing a soft pink, and leaning down to press your lips together. 

“May I ask why you returned after so long?” you softly inquire. 

Kal-El shifts beneath you. Stiffens and tightens his hold on your waist before he gently shrugs. He presses a soft kiss on your temple and tugs your blankets up and over your shoulders.

“Something told me you needed me.” 

You huff against his neck and your eyes flutter shut. You brand a smile into his skin the same way that he’s branding his fingerprints into yours.

“I’ve needed you every day for the last five years, Kal-El,” you mumble against the side of his neck. He chuckles. His fingers, much gentler than earlier, glide up and down your back. A soft, repetitive drag that makes it harder and harder for you to stay awake. 

“I saw your father upon my arrival in Delphi, and I took that as a sign.”

You smile again. Your hand slides up to his chest and your palm presses over the left side of it. The thump of his heart is slow and steady. Likely the last bit of comfort you’ll have before sunrise. 

“He warned me you were here. He still does not like you.” 

Kal-El laughs at you. You furrow your brow and sneak a peek up at him. 

“It isn’t a laughing matter.” 

“It is,” he hums against your lips when he leans forward to kiss you. “Because my Father still does not like you. All of the cards are stacked against us.” 

You groan and pull away from him. Your head gently smacks against the bare skin of his chest as you bury your face into it. 

“What will we do?”

He could probably sense the worry in your shaky voice. Because, when he gives you a squeeze, tangles your legs together, and kisses your head for what seems like the thousandth time tonight, he remains calm to combat your fright. 

“Whatever it is, we will do it together, my heart.”

Your hands are weak as they hold onto his strong arms, his skin already covered in red lines that mark where your nails have bitten into his arms and shoulders and back.

Clark rocks his hips slowly, every inch dragging out of you only to slide back in. You can feel the thick head of his cock brushing your cervix, forcing the breath to leave your lungs.

You squeeze around him as he kisses across your neck, the hot ache of desire already pooling low in your womb again.

“You doing okay, honey?” he asks, sucking a mark into the side of your neck.

You can barely open your eyes, your body torn between exhaustion and lust, as you just nod and mumble incoherently.

“What was that?”

“I can take it,” you say again, throat a little sore from all the moans and squeals he's pulled out of you.

A little smile forms on Clark's lips. You're always so willing to make him feel good, even when he pushes your body past its limits.

“If you want me to stop, you tell me,” he says gently, brushing his nose over your jaw. “You hear me, baby? You say the word, and I stop.”

You nod mindlessly, knowing he worries about you. But honestly? You're awfully content. You get a minimum of five orgasms every time your boyfriend fucks you — not exactly something you'd complain about.

“Just a while longer, baby,” he promises, pushing one of your legs up to your chest, then the other.

You mewl, helpless, as he folds you in half. His cock slides deeper into you at this angle, pressing right against your g-spot and making you feel even fuller.

He grunts softly when you squeeze around him, and he knows he's not gonna last much longer. He picks up the pace a little, gentle thrusts that empty and then fill you with each roll of his hips.

You whine, your oversensitive pussy squelching and dribbling as he fucks into you. Pleasure spills to the rest of your body, running hot and thick through your veins like warm honey. You feel almost dizzy with it, like it's too much and not enough at the same time.

Clark watches your beautiful face caught up in pleasure. Your pretty eyes are shut tight, your soft mouth open as broken moans spill from your lips. His cock twitches at the sight and he feels proud of himself for making you feel this good. It's the least he can do after making you withstand his cock for hours.

“You're so perfect, baby,” Clark says, moving a little faster, wet sounds echoing through the room every time his hips meet yours. “Fuck. You're so good to me.”

He leans down, kissing your collarbone and up to your neck, hearing your heart racing in your chest.

You moan, cunt sucking him in like you can't get enough. His cock presses against your cervix lightly, just enough to make you feel stuffed without it being painful.

“That's it, baby. Good girl,” he praises, nibbling at the skin of your neck. “Just let me make you feel good.”

He fucks you fast and hard and deep now, your body bouncing with each thrust, little gasps and whimpers leaving you.

The pleasure is so intense, it almost burns as it fills your womb. Your body squirms under Clark's as he fucks and fucks and fucks you. Tears of ecstasy fill your eyes, the fat drops falling down your cheeks and landing on the pillow underneath.

“Fuck, baby, I know,” Clark grunts, kissing your forehead. “I know, honey. It's so much. I promise I'm almost done.”

He's not lying. There's heat gathering low in his abdomen, making his hips stutter and his cock twitch. He's getting close.

One of his huge hands moves down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing over it in tight, messy circles.

Your cunt squeezes him tight and your hips jerk, the touch of his fingers making you see stars. “Clark,” you moan breathlessly. “Clark.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. I'm right there with you,” he groans, leaning his forehead against yours. His hot breath fans over your face, his eyes shut tight as he feels the familiar ache of his orgasm building.

He angles his hips up, his cock adding more pressure to your g-spot and your womb, making you squeal.

You're right at the edge, the pleasure low in your belly coiled tight and hot, ready to burst at the smallest push.

And then Clark presses his fingers down on your clit and your mind goes blank as you fall right over the edge.

You moan his name as you come, your nails digging into his shoulders, gummy walls squeezing around him tight enough that he can't move anymore.

Your orgasm triggers his. He moans as he comes right after you, his hips thrusting into you hard until his cock twitches and his thick, sticky cum spills into you. He presses himself into you as deep as he can go, rope after rope of hot cum fills your pussy, his hips stuttering weakly as your cunt clamps down on him.

He stays buried deep in you as he comes down, his sweaty forehead pressed against yours.

“Fuck, baby,” he says lowly, kissing all over your face. “Are you okay? Was I too rough?”

You shake your head weakly, your chest heaving as you try to regain your breath. “’m okay,” you mumble, your voice a little hoarse.

Clark nods, relieved. He'd never forgive himself if he got too rough with you.

Gently, he pulls out of you and rolls onto his side, hugging you to him. He kisses your temple and says, “I love you, baby. So much.”

You mumble in response, already drifting off to sleep. Clark just watches you for a moment, thinking how lucky he is to be yours.

Sometimes, he feels a little guilty about how spent he leaves you, about the long hours of sex your body withstands just for him to come. But whenever he sees your blissed out expression, that content and satisfied look on your pretty face, he figures it's not that bad.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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Your thoughts began rambling, running to the point of breaking down. Maybe it’s because of the lack of food you consumed, or maybe the lack of rest, but what you know is that you needed all the thoughts to be gone.

And what better way than to have Clark fuck you senseless?

You look up at him, eyes all hazy from the stress and need just from thinking about his thick cock plunging into you.

“Clark, baby?” you asked sweetly.

He only hummed in response, still annoyingly so focused on his papers.

You frowned unknowingly. “Can you help me?”

His attention finally shifted, turning back to look at you. “You finally gonna sleep now?”

You huffed in protest, of course he was in on this again. “I told you I’m not tired, Clark–”

“Yet you keep whining and crying all day, baby,” his tone more stern than usual, the veins on his neck bulging just like they always did when his patience was wearing thin.

“I told you I need to finish this soon!” Your brows knitted in protest, the stress now fueling your annoyance at him.

“Well, not by making yourself miserable…” he let out a quiet sigh, knowing that he can’t do anything when you’ve made up your mind. So he decided to be a reliable boyfriend instead.

“What do you need help with, sweetheart?” his tone was so much softer now, his attention fully on you as he stood up from his desk towards the bed, instinctively tidying up your mess along the way.

“Will you make it all go away, please?” You looked up at him as he towered over you from the edge of the bed. Your hands trailing down from his chest to his stomach and lower, making him let out a shaky breath while his muscles twitch.

“Now you want me, huh?” his fingers trailed your jaw, tipping your chin up. “You’ve been ignoring my warnings all day, so here’s something. You have to earn it today, baby.”

The next thing you know, you were perched on his lap. His hard cock slapping against your thighs, his pre making his tip glisten so deliciously.

Your pants were gone, panties bunched up to the side as he teased your folds in a way that made you tremble on top of him.

“You have to promise me to take care of yourself, or you won’t come. Okay?” he whispered the words into your ears.

“But Clark, I can’t–” before you gasped as he lifted you easily, guiding you down on his cock so agonizingly slow. His tip entering you, stretching you split wide open inch by inch, till you could feel all of his veins along your walls.

“No moving. You’ve been denying me, so now I’m denying you,” his tone sharp, like a warning.

“Please– please, Clark…” you whimpered, cunt fluttering as you try your hardest not to move, or he won’t let you reach your climax after all.

Your breaths deepened, insides burning, clit throbbing from being so close yet so far.

He began lecturing you. On how you should take more care of yourself, how you should stop skipping meals and drink more water, and how you should take more breaks so you won’t be in this situation again.

But you can’t think anymore.

He tutted then, hand finding your cheeks as he cupped them. “Listen. Be a good girl and repeat what I said.”

You nodded, trying your best to recollect the things he had told you all night. “Hahh– no skipping meals, drink water—Clark please!”

“I said no. Repeat what I told you,” he squeezed your cheeks harder.

And your cunt can’t help but have a mind on its own. You always find it hot when Clark use that serious tone on you, as rare as it is—so your walls kept contracting, making you produce more and more of your slickness that was now seeping outside and dripping onto his base.

Now his own control was weakening with every pulse of your hole. You can hear how his breath kept hitching with every beat, how his hips buck just the slightest, you almost can’t tell.

The both of you were so close, so you decided to just comply.

“Okay fine– I promise to stop after this,” you whimpered. “I’ll eat and drink more water Clark, I promise.”

He let out a sigh, before his demeanor changed. He kissed your cheek, your jaw. “Good girl. Now let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You then let out a quiet cry as he began bouncing you up and down his cock, moaning louder as his fingers began to make tight circles around your clit.

All the while, he kept praising you in your ears, kissing you with every word.

It was quick. You felt the orgasm tipping from every thrust he gave, the soft words, the way his fingers worked so methodically, like he had done it a thousand times.

“Gonna come–!” you gasped.

“Give it to me, sweetheart,” he rasped, before letting out a moan as you finally reached your edge.

Your walls fluttered violently, your whole body shaking on top of him, and your mouth parted to let out the most beautiful moans he’d ever heard.

He kept kissing your face as you ride out your high, his own cock spilling with a deep groan into your ears.

“You did so good for me… now come on, let me cook you dinner, then we can sleep, okay?”

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“The priests have arrived.” 

“Come closer, dear,” you gently command. “I need assistance with my veil.” 

The quiet, shy thing crosses the cold stone floor of your room in order to follow your orders. When her fingers are nimbly hooking your veil into your hair, you act as though it was because you couldn’t see the top of your head to avoid the ugly truth. 

That your arms were too heavy and your body was too weak to lift them.

She helps you lay the purple veil over your face. The fabric is beautiful. Softer than silk and perfectly weaved together, as if Lady Athena herself had crafted it. It blurs your eyesight and casts your room in a deep, royal purple color. The blurring softens the harsh edges of the room. Softens it enough to make it seem like an enjoyable place instead of a self-inflicted prison cell. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. The girl interlocks her arm with yours. Gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. Her eyes are impossible to not feel as they burrow into the side of your head. 

“The Radiant One will shine on you today. He will heal you as soon as the ritual is over.” 

What a lie, you want to tell her. He’s never even spoken to me, much less healed me.

“His allowing me to be His prophet is healing enough,” is what you actually tell her. If He has any mercy on you, if He makes this day easier for you, you’ll be surprised. There’s a decent chance that He’s forgotten you. Lost in the shuffle. Not important enough to care for. Abandoned, perhaps. 

Like Father, like son. 

But you don’t have time to think of Kal-El. Not before a ritual is supposed to begin. Not when he hasn’t shown up in the entire five years you’ve been here. Not when you’ve been thinking about him all day already. So you shake him out of your head and avoid the stinging in your eyes.

Your quickened steps, somewhat forced by the priestess next to you, are heavier than you wish they’d be. This is the ninth month. The most tiring one. The final ritual of the year, when all of the most important people come to you begging for a prophecy from a god who refuses to speak to you. To speak through you. 

She’s excited because she knows nothing about it. She’s walking you as quickly as possible because she thinks she’s about to hear from Apollo. If only she knew that you’ve been Apollo all along. 

The two priests are waiting for you at the end of the hallway that leads to your room, like she said they’d be. When the minor priestess hands you off to them, she quietly whispers, “Good luck, my lady. He will care for you and ensure your safety.” 

He will not. He does not care about me at all.

That’s what you want to say, but you give her a soft, grateful nod instead. An act. Something that says you enjoy doing this, that you love destroying your body and making up prophecies for people who you’ve never met in your life. It’s as though you’re a player in the theatre. And He should be happy about that, shouldn’t He? He’s the patron of the arts.

Your eyes track her for as long as possible, but you eventually lose sight of the girl when she passes you off to the priests. You still don’t remember her name, and that makes you ache with grief. With guilt. She’s been so kind to you. Cared for you and checked on you. And yet, like your god and like His favorite son does to you, you’ve neglected her. 

You don’t remember these priests’ names, either. It’s hard to commit people to memory when you don’t particularly care for them. Besides, it’s not like they care about you. They just care about what you do, and anyone could do this. It could have been any unfortunate girl. Of course, it was you. You aren’t the first. You won’t be the last. 

You’re just another cow in their herd. 

Everything that ensues when you’re handed off is a blur. The priests walk you through the front of the temple. They chant their chants to kick everything off. You put on a brave face behind your veil as they lead you toward the Castalian Spring. Stoic. Unflinching. 

When you shed your clothing at the foot of the Castalian, they divert their eyes by turning around. Another part of the ritual. It gives you some privacy.

Privacy. How ridiculous. It’s broad daylight right now. There are no clouds in the sky today. The light from the sun is illuminating every part of your body as you step into the water, bouncing off of it and making you glow.

Apollo, if He’s there, can see all of you. He’s supposed to be watching you, anyway; illuminating the spring and supporting you as though you’re His wife. His light is falling on your skin. His light is claiming you. 

His way of marking His territory is much different from His favorite son’s. Kal-El would hide you from the sunlight. He would take you in the moonlight, instead, so his Father couldn’t see and couldn’t take you from him. He would mark you as his with a series of soft bites and gentle suckles all over your body, with soft, slow thrusts that turned the two of you into one. With whispered praises about how much he loved you and how he wanted you all to himself. With promises that he'd never let you get taken away.

The sunlight can never nip at your skin like his teeth could. It can’t warm you up like his body could. It can’t love you like he could. That much is true to you, and it always rings truest on a ritual day.

You glance over your shoulder and back at the priests. Their backs are still turned to you, giving you the illusion that you’re completely alone here. Apollo isn’t watching. He doesn’t care. The priests aren’t allowed to watch. Kal-El hasn’t shown his face here for the entire five years you’ve been the oracle. 

Perhaps you are utterly alone in this moment.

You wade a little deeper into the water. When you cup some of it and bring it up to your face, relief is brought to your exhausted body and soul. As each lingering droplet slowly slides down your face and back toward the spring, you can pretend it’s simply the water and that you’re not crying. 

Upon your arrival at the temple so many years ago, the priests and priestesses made you aware of one simple fact: 

“You will know The Radiant One has arrived when there is a sweetness suspended in the air around you.”

It was uncanny, really, how so many of them told you that. What isn’t uncanny is how you’ve never picked up on the sweetness that He supposedly brings in the air of this temple—but you’ve tasted the soft sweetness of the Cassotis every time you’ve done this ritual. You hesitate to give Him the credit for that despite everyone wanting to. 

That sacred water was named after the nymph He chased and tailed like a rabid dog. If anything, it should be sweet because of Her. That’s something you’ve always given Her. At least one person in this temple isn’t afraid of the truth. 

That sweetness within the second spring you visit during each ritual day reminds you that, clearly, someone is watching over you. It’s just never the god—or, rather, the son of said god—you want it to be. 

Now, as you perch yourself on this godsforsaken ritualistic tripod, you taste none of that sweetness. The mist rising up through the cracks of the temple floor brings nothing saccharine; just a foggy cloud that makes it harder to see the people in front of you. 

Which means that Apollo, like you figured, isn’t here. You’re on your own again despite it all. 

Despite the sweetness of the Cassotis that brings you a sense of false hope every time you sip from it, despite the successfully sacrificed goat to appease Hestia and Chios and the self-proclaimed Radiant One, despite the drawn lots securing the order of men and women you’ll be seeing today, despite the signs that everything will go well and you will be successful, you’re on your own. 

Success isn’t something you’ve cared much for. Not when no one is here for you to share it with. 

Your mind drifts to Kal-El even with the threat hanging over your head of your first visitor entering the temple’s adyton. 

Who is celebrating his successes with him, now? Who is there to praise him for being Delphi’s protector? Who is listening to his tales of his adventures with awe? Who is walking through the city with him as people throw themselves at his feet to express gratitude for him and for his Father for bearing him?

Who is he inviting into his bed? Who is he warming with his soft, flawless, golden skin? Who is he sheltering from the sunlight and taking in the moonlight? Who has he proposed to, and who has he had the children he wanted with?

The thoughts make your mouth run dry. Make your head ache and your heart hammer within your chest. That should be you doing all of those things with him, and yet, here you are. Perched on an uncomfortable tripod that dozens before you have perched upon. Performing a ritual that dozens before you have performed. Seeing a handful of desperate people who mirror the desperate people that dozens before you have seen. 

The difference? They wanted to do it. Considered it an honor instead of a curse. 

You sigh to yourself. Take a quick glance to the left and the right. No one is in here, so you slowly bring the dish of Cassotis spring water in your left hand up to your mouth and take a sip from it to quench your thirst. The sweetness lingering in the water coats your tongue. Reminds you that maybe you’re not entirely alone—so you silently thank Her and lower the bowl back down. 

Perfect timing. The first guest is announced and descends into your playing grounds. An unknowing extra in your play. 

He crosses the floor—your stage—and you recognize him immediately. The tired eyes, the weary soul. The damaged and war-torn body of someone who can’t handle another battle. A general from a city-state you know nothing about, other than the fact that they’re losing the war they’ve waged against Athens. Why anyone would fight against Lady Athena’s patron city is beyond you. 

Being an oracle with no god to lead you has taught you two important things. The first, to increase your storytelling abilities. The second, to stay updated with all of the news within Greece. So when that general asks, “Have the tides shifted? Will we win this war?” in that gruff, exhausted voice you remember from the last three rituals, you already know what you’ll say. 

But you clutch the laurel wreath in your right hand a little harder, and you gaze into the Cassotis spring waters anyway.

“The tides remain unflinchingly still. Leave war strategy to Athens’s protector. Turn your back on Athens and your hubris if you wish to preserve your people and their memory.”

He leaves in a fury from your direct “prophecy.” Not the first time that’s happened. Each negative interaction with these people merely bounces off of your skin now. 

The next person is a woman. Rare, but it happens. She’s got tears rimming her reddened eyes and a slightly quivering bottom lip. She keeps wringing her hands in front of her swollen belly and picking at her already torn apart nails. There’s a darkness in her eyes that you recognize all too well. You’ll see that darkness if you look too closely at the spring water in your left hand. 

She takes a shaky breath. You didn’t need to hear that in order to tell this one will be heartbreaking. That you’ll go easy on her. When you gnaw at the inside of your cheek, you hope she doesn’t see it. 

“Will my baby survive this time?”

This time. What a horrible addition to that already terrible question.

Every once in a while, you’re reminded that you still have a heart. That, maybe, he didn’t take it away from you completely when he left you. 

Another tightening of your grip on the laurel wreath. Another glance into the spring waters. When you finally swallow the lump forming in your throat, you work up the courage to look her in the eyes and give her a response.

“The baby will remain with you forever.”

That non-answer gets her to stop crying, at the very least. Gets her to give you a weak smile and reverent head bow. Breaks your heart even more when she walks out of this prison thinking that the gods have shined on her pregnancy. 

At least if it goes poorly, she’ll blame them.

The rest of the ritual goes off without a hitch. A person comes, you give them a cryptic message, and they leave. Some laugh. Some cry. None of them thank you. By the end of everything, after you were forced to come up with a countless number of predictions, your spine is screaming for relief from this uncomfortable tripod and your arms ache. The weight of the laurel wreath is exhausting your right. The constant lifting and gazing into the Cassotis spring waters is exhausting your left. 

It all feels particularly useless. All of these prophecies are your own. Random guesses that will be left to the Fates. A set of stupid lines within a stupid play that you somehow got the leading role for. 

“Was that the last of them?” you ask while the final person was on their way out of the adyton. The priest who led them in seems particularly shocked that you spoke to him. He whips around, his robes sloshing around his feet and threatening to make you laugh. They caught at his heel and made him stumble a bit. It might be mean, but you’d wished he would have fallen. 

“Yes, my lady. There are no more visitors in the temple.” 

“Thank you,” you mutter. “Close the entrance, then. You may go.” 

He scuttles away in a flurry of quick, embarrassed footsteps. Again, you’re left alone in this prison; the thoughts from earlier, though, don’t return. You’re too exhausted to think. Almost too exhausted to move. The only thing moving your legs and helping you slip off of the tripod you’ve become more than acquainted with is your desire to sleep in your own bed. 

As you’re in the process of regaining feeling in your tired limbs, in putting the Cassotis spring water down  on the tripod and setting the laurel wreath down on the floor, you hear shuffling outside of the adyton. A little bit of a scuffle. Probably a last minute person trying to get access to the temple. To you. Or, really, to Apollo. 

They don’t care about you. 

“You must come back another day, sir! She has seen her last visitor, and the ritual has concluded!” 

You laugh to yourself, then sigh. Of course this would happen to you. That pathetic priest will never stop someone so aggressive that he has to yell at them. Seems like you’ll be getting another guest. Another patron. Someone desperately trying to talk to a god and only getting a woman. Someone who’s about to be sorely disappointed. 

So you pick up the laurel wreath again. You pick up the Cassotis spring waters again. You sit on this damned tripod again and hope, for once, that you’re wrong. That the priest will manage to scare off that person, and that you’ll be able to retire to bed. 

But you never get what you want. Not since you’ve come here. 

“My lady,” that same pathetic, now shaken-up priest says when he pops back into the adyton. “We do have one final guest. He said he wishes to see you.” 

You pause. That was an odd way to put it. No one ever comes here for you aside from your family, of whom the priests are familiar with. 

“Me?” you quietly ask. Hesitantly. After a tiny scoff and a set of confused blinking, you murmur, “He wishes…to see me? Do you not mean he wishes to receive guidance from the Radiant One?”

“No, ma’am. He wishes to see you.” 

What a bold thing it is to come to Apollo’s temple and ignore him in place of his head priestess. He would be quite angry about that if he was ever here and listening to its happenings. Your hands weaken around the laurel wreath and the Cassotis spring waters. You set the dish down in your lap and let the wreath hang off of your wrist. 

Your brain knows it’s not who you think it is. Your heart wants it to be, though. The abandonment can be forgiven if he apologizes for it. If he tells you he still loves you. If he tells you he was swept away on an adventure for five years, and all he could do was think of returning to you in his absence. 

You clear your throat and nod. 

“I…very well, then. Send him in if he is so persistent.” 

The priest bows his head then walks away to fetch the new final person you’ll have to see before your night’s over. While you wait, your heart hammers against your ribcage. You had no idea it even had the capability to beat this way anymore. Kal-El had taken it with him when he left you all those years ago, or at least that was what you believed. 

Perhaps he’s always had it and is returning it now. 

Footsteps ring out to your left and you hesitate to turn your head. How you’ll ever meet his eyes again is beyond you. You feel too much anger. Too much embarrassment. Too much grief and longing. Being in the same room with him again may kill you. 

The person slowly closes in on you. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the frame of someone you know. A frame that you’ve seen hundreds of times before, one that you’d lean on when you needed support and one that you’d come to hate over the last five years. 

Relief is seemingly not in your cards.

“What are you doing here?” you mumble. Disappointedly so. Your shoulders slump and your heart continues to erratically beat in your chest, but it’s not from anticipation. 

“Is a father not allowed to see his daughter?” is the gruff question you get in return. 

“Not after the ritual has concluded. Get out,” is the angry answer you shoot back at him. Your father doesn’t visit as much as your mother. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’ve seen him since you’ve taken this position. 

“I simply wanted to speak with you. This was the only time I could do so.” 

You roll your eyes and shove the Cassotis spring water dish in his hands. While you’re in the process of dropping the laurel wreath and sliding off of the tripod to storm away from him, you furiously ask, “You can visit me on any day of the week, and you choose now? For what reason?”

“Because I have news for you. I know you hate me, but listen to me. Please.” 

Your father never put forward any sort of gratitude for you. Begging for you to speak to him, or to listen to him, is odd. It’s intriguing enough to stop you from leaving him alone in the adyton. Not intriguing enough to get you to turn around and look at him, though. 

“Quickly, then,” is what you punch out. Why tell him you don’t hate him? Why lie? 

“Your Kal-El has returned to Delphi. He is looking for you.”

“He was never mine to begin with. You made sure of that.” 

That’s the only response you gave your father before you abandoned him in the adyton. He didn’t even fight to keep you there with him. He simply watched you storm out without so much as saying one word of rebuttal.

As you pace around your room in the dead of night, all you can think about is what he told you. Kal-El’s come home. Your Kal-El. 

“My Kal-El,” you whisper to yourself, “is looking for me.” 

The ache in your body from today’s ritual is long gone, now replaced with a fire in your soul you’ve not felt for years. It’s as though you’ve been struck by lightning. Like you’ve been hit directly in the chest with it. Like it’s jolted your heart back to life.

The ringing in your ears is the only thing louder than your restless footsteps, but it’s not louder than your thoughts. 

How long has he been gone? Was it for the last five years? Is that why he hasn’t shown his face to you? Although…why didn’t he send a letter, or someone else to talk to you? Has he been that angry with you? Is he still angry with you and looking to tell you off?

You shake your head and bury your face in your hands. No time to spiral, now. Your body will never recover from the ritual if you don’t sleep, but with the fire running through your veins, you’re not sure you’ll ever rest. You may never sleep again. 

But you slowly pad toward the small altar for Apollo at the foot of your bed, anyway. You kneel in front of it and bow your head, anyway. You recite your prayers to the open air, to no one, anyway. Perhaps He’s actually listening this time, and He’ll grant you your wish of His son actually returning to see you. 

As you push yourself up from the altar and take a deep breath, you feel a little lighter. The rituals will not return for three months, and your Kal-El is looking for you. Looking to speak with you. Looking to take you away from here, if you’re lucky. 

A shiver runs down your spine due to a sudden breeze in your room. One of your aides must have left a window open. 

You can’t help but wonder about how your mother is doing.

Your breath remains in your chest while you spin on a heel to check on that breeze. It leaves you almost immediately, though. Gets stolen straight out of you from fright and surprise when you realize someone else is in this room with you, now, standing just in front of the doorway and waiting for you to turn around. Your gaze falls on another pair of eyes. A pair that you could recognize in any crowd. 

A pair that you would remember even after you haven’t seen them for five years. 

You hum softly, giving up on your task to lean back against him, just enjoying the moment.

But Clark can't hold back when it comes to you.

One of his hands slips down a little, moving from your stomach, lower, until his fingers graze the waistband of your pants.

“Clark,” you say quietly in warning, feeling your body grow hot at his touch. “We have to go.”

“We've got a while,” he murmurs as form of explanation, his fingers deftly undoing the button and the zipper on your pants.

“We'll be late for work,” you say weakly, warmth spreading between your thighs.

“We'll be fine,” he replies, grazing his teeth over your ear as his hand slips under your panties. His fingers slide over your cunt, gently parting your folds to press against your clit in neat little circles.

You let out a soft moan, hips pushing forward against his hand.

Clark's mouth trails down the side of your neck, kissing and sucking your skin, feeling himself getting harder and harder as you mewl and whine lowly.

His fingers move a little lower, prodding at your entrance, feeling your slick slowly starting to drip out.

“Oh, baby,” he groans lowly, his teeth lightly digging into your neck in a soft bite. “You feel so good.”

You moan, hands grabbing onto the counter, your hips pressing against his fingers. “Clark...fuck...”

“I know,” he says lowly, his voice rough, as he starts grinding his hips against your ass. He groans at the friction against his hard cock, and he can feel the front of his boxers already damp with precum.

You're making soft little sounds that go straight to his groin, his name falling from your lips in little gasps.

Gently, Clark eases you forward to bend over the counter, one hand on your hip, the other one sliding a finger into your wet pussy.

Your cunt welcomes him eagerly, walls warm and pulsing as his finger delves deep in and then curls, finding your g-spot with ease.

He gently pushes your foot with his to spread your legs farther apart, giving him more room.

With every breath he takes, he can smell your arousal, mixed with the scent of your body lotion and your shampoo. It makes him insane, makes him wish he could rip your pants off, sit you on this counter and eat you out like you deserve. But that'll lead to him fucking you, and then you'll both definitely be late to work.

You moan loud, thighs shaking as Clark adds a second finger into you, thrusting and curling them perfectly, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit.

A familiar heat spreads through your body, thick and intense as it fills your womb. It grows hotter as Clark fucks you with his fingers, pushing you towards the edge.

“Clark,” you gasp, but he already knows. He can feel your gummy walls squeezing his fingers tight, he can feel the way your body is shaking. He can hear your racing heart, can smell your juices dripping from you and gathering in your panties.

The thought of you being so close only spurs him on more. He rolls his hips against your ass, his cock twitching in his boxers as he grinds against you, the fabric sticky from his precum.

“I know, baby,” he grunts, the steady rhythm of his hips stuttering as a tight coil of heat grows taut in his lower abdomen. “Almost there.”

You're squealing now, your legs quivering and threatening to give out. But Clark holds you steady with one arm around your waist, keeping you in place.

The hot sensation in your womb builds and builds, like a balloon filling with air, until you're sure you can't take it anymore.

“Clark —” you try to warn him, but your brain is hazy with pleasure and your tongue isn't collaborating. “Fuck!”

The steady press of his fingers against that spongy spot in you, combined with the press of his palm against your clit, has you seeing stars. But it's also pushing you towards something more than just a regular orgasm.

You're mewling and whining, not able to find the words to warn him as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge until the heat is too much, until your body shudders and the tension in your womb snaps, and you come.

You moan his name loud enough that the entire building might've heard. A gush of your slick spills from you, soaking Clark's hands, making a mess of your panties and your work outfit, your juices drenching the fabric.

Clark moans as he feels you squirt on him, the feeling of it pushing him to his own orgasm. He comes with a rough groan, his hot cum spurting onto his boxers in thick, sticky ropes.

You're both breathing heavy, bodies slowly coming to, skin sticky with sweat.

Clark kisses the side of your neck gently as he withdraws his hand. “You okay?” he asks.

You nod softly, still breathless. “Yeah, I'm good.”

He hums. “You were right, we're gonna be late,” he says sheepishly. “We're gonna have to clean up before we head out. I wasn't counting on us making such a mess...”

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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One of his hands twitches in the sheets beneath him, aching to reach out and touch you and yet not doing it because he knows what’ll happen if he does that. You’ll just go slower. Prolong the torture.

“You’re so pretty,” you whisper. Your eyes meet, and you wink at him, and his already pink blush turns red almost immediately.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that?” you ask. Gentle and sweet, not teasing in the slightest. It’s not that you want to tease him. It’s just that he’s so cute when he’s being teased, you can’t really help yourself when you do it.

“Look at how perfect you are.” Your hand runs up his happy trail and toward his chest, fingers lingering over his skin and making him squirm even more. You lean down to kiss over each spot your fingers trace. Each kiss you plant on him has him huffing out a frustrated little breath.

“So big and strong,” you purr into his chest, a gentle compliment that softens the blow when you continue with, “and you’re just falling apart beneath your girlfriend. Big, strong Superman can’t handle it when I touch him, huh?”

“You’re gonna kill me,” he breathes, head falling back into the pillows beneath it, jaw tightening and eyes squeezing shut. His thighs shift and you get scared for a moment; scared that he’ll just push you forward with them and make you ride him. He’s done it before.

But he’s being particularly good tonight, albeit restless. He settles again. You sit back up on him and return to dragging your fingers up and down his abdomen. He’s so thick, so warm, so soft. Hell, you might just give up on this teasing act. You’re well aware of the mess you’re making between your own thighs, the one that’s probably dripping down your skin and onto his.

“You wanna know what my favorite part is?” you ask. Better to change the subject than to give in. Your fingers stall at his happy trail. He pants a pathetic little confirmation out at you, hands still aching to touch you as they dig into your bed a little harder. He forces his eyes open, but they’re lidded.

“This,” you answer, fingers softly curling into and toying with the thick, dark mat of hair just beneath his belly button. This happy trail has always been your favorite. You spend extra time playing with it when you’ve got your hands on his body, or kissing it when you’re on your knees in front of him.

You especially enjoy when he’s beneath you like this, cock hardened to an unbearable degree, twitching and dribbling precum all over that pretty happy trail you’ve loved since the first time you saw it.

A particularly large drop of it falls onto the back of your hand where you’re still touching his happy trail. It makes you giggle. You lean forward to kiss him; soft, slow, and featherlight. Not enough to give him anything, but just enough to keep him waiting for more.

Before you pull away from him, you pat his lower abdomen and whisper, “‘Cause it’s so cute when you make a mess all over yourself right here. Especially when it’s just for me, baby.”

You smile when he whines and tries to reconnect your lips, his entire body straining in an attempt at keeping his composure despite him breaking it. When you sit back up and brush your fingers over the underside of his cock—teasing and hardly-there—he whimpers so loudly, squirms so roughly beneath you, that you’re concerned for your neighbors. His constant moving is making the bed frame shake, and you’re almost certain that he’s being so loud that the windows might have shook.

“Shh,” you gently coo. You bring your hand up to your mouth and wait until he’s got his eyes on you to lick up the mess he made on your skin. Clark’s face is practically glowing, now. Bright red, flushed with need and embarrassment and, above all else, love.

“I—please,” he whines, hips canting when you return your hand to his body. “Please, just…I need you, honey. Please.”

You feign pity with a gentle jutting of your bottom lip.

“You need me, huh?”

A quick nod of his head is what you get. You hum. Your fingers slide down his stomach, stopping at his happy trail so you can coat them with his precum.

“Fine,” you tell him. “I’ll take pity on you since you’re being so good for me.”

Then you wrap your hand around his cock, thumb gently running over the head of it. As soon as you start pumping your hand up and down slowly but firmly—just how he likes it—he sucks in a deep breath. That breath punches out of his chest as a loud, pathetic cry of your name.

That’s because he’s already spilling his load all over your hand and himself. A few ropes of it shoot up to his stomach, pooling in his belly button, painting over the dark, coarse hairs of his happy trail, and gently dribbling down your knuckles and fingers once he’s gotten most of it out.

“Wow,” you whisper, giggling at him and continuing to pump his cock up and down despite the fact that he’s finished. His body is shaking, trembling, writhing on the sheets while he babbles something resembling a million different thank yous and pleas for you to stop moving your hand.

You don’t stop moving your hand.

“You made such a mess, baby. Did so well for me, didn’t you?”

“Yes!” he whines. Bucks his hips up so roughly that you slip forward on his lap and have to press your free hand against his big, broad chest. That gets you to take your other hand off of his cock. The way you slip forward and end up sitting right on top of his happy trail—legs straddling his torso and pussy fluttering from the sound of his sweet, overstimulated noises—has an idea popping up in your head.

“Yeah, you’re being so good for me. Now sit still and let me use you for a little while,” you mumble, rolling your hips forward and shuddering from the sensation that greets you there. The coarse hairs of his happy trail rub against your clit just right; just enough to make you moan his name as your head lolls forward and you dig your nails into his chest.

Each shift of your hips is short and quick. Punctuated with the lewd schlick of your wetness and his come mixing together while you get yourself off on top of him. All Clark can do is stare at you. Admire you. Caress your thighs and hips so gently that it’s almost like he’s not touching you at all. He smiles up at you, though. Sends you a wink and runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

“Seems like you needed me just as much, honey.”

He separates from you only for a moment. Only to mutter a sassy retort against your lips, as you always expect him to do. 

“You reside in the brightest area of Delphi. Surely, you get enough light without my presence. All I do is dote upon your shoulder. If anything, I block your light.” 

“That’s true,” you concede while pulling away from his lips and peering up into his eyes. Your body glues itself to his, leans into the soft kiss he presses onto your temple. 

“And yet your Father’s kindness shines on us daily. Might that have something to do with his favorite son always visiting?”

He scoffs.

“He has many sons. I am not his favorite.” 

“You are nothing but a humble liar!” you playfully shout, smacking him on the arm and giggling when he wiggles his eyebrows at you. His arm is so dense that it most likely hurt you to do that more than it hurt him.

“But, it does not matter. You are Delphi’s favorite, and you are my favorite. That must count for something.”

He grabs your hand and starts to walk a little deeper into the empty field you designated as your meeting spot for his return. Once the city gets its hands on him, you’ll be unable to see him until he leaves again. 

“It counts for everything.” 

He falls silent after that little quip. When his eyes, bluer than the sky itself, land on you, there’s a curiosity and sense of unease in them you’ve not seen before. As though he wants to ask you something. As if he wants to peer into your soul even deeper than he already has. 

You stop walking and tug his massive body back toward you when he continues.

“Something is weighing on you. I know that look on your face better than I know the back of my own hand.”

“I…” 

His jaw tightens beneath his golden skin. He blinks and looks away from you. Clears his throat and slips his hands down to yours. When his fingers curl around your palm, your heart jumps. The ache in your body—the painful jolt shooting through your bones—calls to be drawn into his. This simple contact is not enough. 

Considering it’ll be one of the last times you’ll get to touch him, it’ll never be enough. But you bask in it, anyway. Better than nothing. 

“Speak. You’ve never been shy with anyone, much less with me. Do not begin hiding now, Kal-El.” 

He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows thickly and shakes his head. 

“I will not be able to take it back once I say it.” 

“It would be better than keeping it from me if it truly bothers you, would it not?” 

It’s as though your body is struck by lightning when he leans down and presses his forehead against yours. His massive arms encircle your waist and pull you into his chest. You’re reminded of exactly who his Father is when his warmth bleeds through his damned breastplate you wish he’d shed. 

He steals the breath from your chest when he presses his lips against yours. Something he’s done a thousand times, and yet something you’ll never truly get tired of. 

Something you’ll miss for the rest of your days. 

Just before his tongue has a chance at slipping into your mouth, you pull away and squeeze your eyes shut. With a press of your fingers against his lips and a soft hum, you mutter, “Use your tongue to speak, not to get beneath my clothing.” 

He smiles against your digits. Presses a soft kiss on those, as well, and threatens to make you melt. As if his heat wasn’t overbearing enough. For the second time tonight, he grabs your hand. Intertwines your fingers. The deep, nervous, shaky breath he pulls in scares you. 

“I think,” he softly begins, but pauses. As if fright itself has overtaken him. He glances up at the sky for a moment. When he returns to you, he lowers his voice even more. 

“I want to retire. Find a home. A wife. Have children and raise them in peace.”

That thought has crossed your mind a million times before. It’s in every dream. Every daydream. Every waking moment where you aren’t being bogged down by your home duties. Even when your mind is focused on something else, that thought is simmering in the back of it. Always there, like the feeling of his skin on yours in every midnight rendezvous you’ve shared over the last few years.

But the gods are always listening. The gods would never let him settle down with someone like you. Your father would never let you settle down with someone like him. 

So you give him a small chuckle and half-heartedly respond, “Retire? While you’re in your prime? Your Father will have something to say about that.” 

“If I’m his favorite as you’ve suggested, he will not.” 

“That’s precisely why he will say something about it.” 

You smile. Your eyes slide down his breastplate, over the various cuts and scrapes in the armor. Your hands follow your eyes. How you wish to touch this strong, broad body without anything covering it. Like you’ve done  so many times before. Like you won’t be able to do after tonight.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Kal-el.” 

That brow you love so much furrows. The man you love more laughs at you, something laced with disbelief and accompanied by a soft squeeze of your hands when he finds them again.

“I have found it,” he declares without an ounce of fear in his voice. You wouldn’t be surprised if his heart was on his sleeve. 

“It resides here. With you.” 

That should make you happy. You should be jumping into his arms with glee, running through the town square and shouting that you’ve been claimed by your patron god’s favorite son. Your eyes should be welling with overjoyed tears. 

There are tears; they’re just the opposite of overjoyed. 

You blink. An attempt to will them away, but a shockingly horrible attempt at that. One slips down your cheek, and Kal-El frowns. Before you know it, he’s wiping your tear away with the rough, calloused pad of one thumb and cradling your cheek with that very same palm.

“Have I offended you? I thought you would be elated, my heart,” he mutters. When he leans down to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then your cheek, down to the tip of your nose and finally your lips, you wish Hades would claim you now. 

“You haven’t,” you whisper. A hiccup claws its way out of your throat, an annoying effect of your crying.

“I want nothing more than to be your wife.”

“Then why are you upset?”

“Because I can’t be your wife.”

Kal-El’s frown grows. There’s a beat of silence. You pull away from him and turn around. Turning away from him almost hurts more than looking at him in this moment.

“I can’t. My father, he…” 

You groan and push the heels of your hands into your eyes. Best to say it as quickly as possible. Get it all over with. So you turn back to look at him, and you do just that.

“He does not like you, but he knows I would never marry anyone except you.”

“If you let me speak to him, I—”

“He’s already made up his mind,” you interrupt. “There’s no use. You will never sway his decision.” 

“And—And you must obey his orders? Are you not a grown woman?” Kal-El raises his voice. 

You raise your voice back.

“You know it’s different! Not all of us are living in reckless abandon with the protection of the gods on their side! If I alienate my father, the rest of my family will be forced to abandon me!”

Kal-El shakes his head. He reaches for you and grabs your wrists with both of his hands, then tugs you closer to him than you’ve been in nearly three months. Damn his long, strong arms—he catches you without even trying, and his iron grip around you is impossible to escape. 

“Then let me become your family! I love you! I can give you everything! I can give you more!” 

“Until you get whisked away by your Father and you leave me alone for months!” you yell when you yank your wrists away from him and take a few steps back. 

“I don’t want to be alone, and don’t act as though it would not happen! You always bend to your Father’s will. You have no right to judge me for doing the same with mine.”

“Then what will come of us?” he pleads. The high pitched desperation in his voice almost makes you leave. Breaking the heart of someone so kind is not for the weak, and you are nothing if not weak. 

“My father wants me to become a priestess. It was either that or lose everyone. I accepted.”

“They can get married!” 

“Not those with the role that I’ve been placed in!” 

Things fall quiet, but only for a moment. While you’re staring at each other, he shatters the not-so-peaceful moment. He asks something that you’re sure he didn’t want the answer to.

“For what temple?” 

His question hangs between you. Sticks to your skin because of the humid air surrounding you both. Tortures you and burns you more than anything you’ve ever had to endure in all your days. 

You shake your head. The answer is one he won’t want to hear.

“Must we discuss this? I want to spend the fleeting time we have left together in good spirits.”

“Good spirits? How could we possibly be in good spirits now?”

“I’m willing to put it aside if you are. Willing to forget your proposal.”

“No, you,” he cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh. Backs away from you a little, just far enough so that you can’t reach him if you extend your arms. 

“You are stalling. Answer me. What temple?”

“One in the city. You will be able to reach it instantly with your Father’s gifts. We will not have to separate from each other unless you decide to leave me.”

He doesn’t seem to care about whatever justification you attempt to feed him. His now angry eyes meet yours, an unforgiving glare that you’ve never been the target of. You feel nothing but sympathy for the monsters he’s slain in battle.

“Who will you serve?” is his gruff retort.

You were waiting for that question. You knew it was on its way to you. But something in you refused to cope with the possibility that it was coming, so now you squirm uncomfortably while you pick at the skin around your nails. Your bottom lip quivers. You can’t make yourself look at him even if you tried. The silence speaks volumes, clearly, and the huff of disbelief he expels while he turns from you makes your heart ache even more. You’ve only just gotten his face back, and he’s already taking it away from you.

“This must be a joke.”

“Kal-El, please—”

“You won’t marry me, but you’ll dedicate your life to my Father? Do you know what you’ve done?!” 

“I did not choose to do it! My father is to blame! He—He forced me to do this! The only thing I could control was which of the gods I was allowed to serve!”

“So you chose my Father?!” 

“Yes!” you shout at him. Your voice echoes in the space between you both. Echoes into the warm, sticky night air, forces Kal-El into silence aside from his heavy, deep breaths. The moonlight itself is refusing to shine on this altercation, refusing to illuminate this shame. Perhaps Artemis is taking pity on you now that you’ve pledged yourself to her brother.

“Yes, I chose your Father!” 

You cover your mouth to let out a sob. Through your teary, blurred eyes, you see his hands twitching at his sides. It’s almost as if they’re begging to reach out to you, to touch you, to comfort you. It only makes you cry harder.

“His favorite son will never be denied access to his temple! I may not be able to marry you, but I refuse to lose you completely!” 

He looks at you as though you’ve slapped him across the face. As though you’ve stabbed him with the intention to kill. When his voice finds its way back to you, it’s harsh. Bitter. Something you’re certain you deserve. 

“You’ve given yourself to my Father, and you expect me to visit you? After this betrayal? The gods themselves are not this cruel!” 

He turns away from you. His broad shoulders and back have never been a source of discomfort for you, but there’s seemingly a first time for everything. He starts to move forward, and you shake your head. A broken little whimper of his name leaves your mouth and stops him in his tracks. 

“You’re engaging in the very cruelty you speak of by abandoning me!” 

“I cannot visit you if I cannot have you.” 

“Is that all I am to you now? A potential wife? Some—Some sort of possession to tend to your house and bare your children while you are out slaying gods and monsters?”

He continues forward after you throw those poisonous, hurt words at him. He’s trying to get as far away from you as possible, judging by the speed of his gait. Since it may very well be the last time you’ll see him, you swing a little lower. Raise your voice to rid yourself of the lump deep within your throat, of the strain from all your crying, and yell one simple sentence:

 “Were we not the closest of friends long before we were lovers?” 

That gets him to stop. Gets him to turn around and finally look at you. If the moonlight was shining on him, you’re certain you’d see tears. 

“Surely, our friendship is more important to you than me becoming your wife, Kal-El. I will remain the same girl you fell in love with. My heart still belongs to you.” 

He shakes his head. Sends you a pitiful smile that you know doesn’t bode well. 

“It belongs to my Father, now.”